


the days of our years

by bookhobbit



Series: the biblical noun phrases trilogy [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Asexual Character, Autism, Cerebral Palsy, Demiromantic Character, Demisexual Character, Developing Relationship, Disabled Character, Kissing, M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of John Childermass's first seven years in Mr Norrell's service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1789

**Author's Note:**

> The alternate title for this fic is "Book and Moll's Headcanons About Demidemi Childermass-With-CP and Ace Autistic Trans Norrell". So, that gives you an idea of the kind of themes it's going to contain. It also gives you an idea of OfShoesAndShip's involvement. (She's catherineofwinchester on tumblr now, nee glendasugarbean nee rowrowrohirrim). Really she ought to have coauthor credit. Childermass-with-CP is her headcanon and I have to thank her for letting me borrow it and kindly answering all my questions and helping me out. Also, you know, for betaing this monster.
> 
> This fic is written completely, and for that reason should update Fridays on the regular barring internet disasters.
> 
> ETA: Oh, and there's a mix. 8tracks.com/bookhobbit/the-years-unspooling

September 1789

At the tail end of his eighteenth year, John Childermass finds himself in service to one Mr Gilbert Norrell, Hurtfew Abbey, Magician.

He has lost his taste for pickpocketing after time in jail, and sailing did not pan out, so this seemed like the last remaining option. Especially because he wants to _learn_  things, and be something, something other than the skinny tattered crow most people see when they look at him. He is quite prepared; he has references. None of them, of course, are real. They are very good references, none the less - not too flattering, not too negative, just the right type of handwriting to put a rich man off his guard.

But service is nothing new to him. He has been trying it on and off for almost two years now, with good references and better lies, in different parts of Yorkshire. The trouble is, he is unsuitable. Childermass's masters tend to sack him without ceremony approximately a fortnight into his employment. There are a number of reasons; he is developing a collection. He leans too much; he is inquisitive; he is insolent; he is "clever" (a grave sin for a servant in the eyes of many gentleman); he turns up late to things and takes too long at tasks; he speaks when not spoken to; he does not speak when spoken to; he is proud.

Some of this he could change, but he will not. He hides most of his knowledge and talent - it is instinct - but he will not allow gentleman to pretend they are better than him. This is, he realizes, an attitude incompatible with his station in life. But at eighteen years old, Childermass is already very tired of being reminded of his station in life.

Service is nothing new, no. But Norrell is.

He is a small, colourless, dull man, but one with very peculiar habits. For instance, Childermass was hired as a valet, and therefore part of his duties include helping Norrell dress. But Norrell is always half-dressed before he calls Childermass in. Generally, Childermass helps him with the smaller, less-accessible buttons, his cravat and waistcoat and coat, and his shoes. Most gentleman would not do any such things for themselves. Norrell certainly has no unusual independence in matters other than this. Childermass thinks there is some secret - perhaps a scar.

He is just as picky and entitled as the rest of the rich heirs Childermass has met, that is certainly true - but he does not hunt or go to parties or speak, as far as Childermass can see, to anyone outside his house if he can get away without doing so. He spends all day with his books and starts if anyone addresses him unexpectedly. He blushes if you look at him too long, and does not like to look you in the eye, and flinches when you touch him, and speaks in a small voice that is barely audible, as if he is talking to himself. Somewhat paradoxically, he also orders his servants around unthinkingly and complains endlessly about Childermass's work, in his thin petulant voice.

Childermass thinks he must be about thirty, give or take a few years, but his manner is that of a much older man.

His house, also, is very peculiar, though in quite a different way from its master. Every day now, Childermass has tried to get to the library with tea and had to be led, for he gets lost every time. He is beginning to suspect it is not natural, the way the corridors seem to twist and turn and go a different direction than they look.

If so, Childermass is determined to see more. No matter how unpleasant Norrell might be, he can stick out a fortnight in the interest of seeing some magic.

Besides which, the library itself is nothing to sneeze at. There must be a thousand books in it. Childermass likes books, although he has owned very few in his lifetime. He would quite like the chance to get acquainted with these ones.

Also, there is the money. Childermass is a practical man and Norrell pays well. Books have their own allure, ands so does the possibility of fulfilling some of his ambitions, but neither will keep him alive the way money will.

So: he is going to stay. He is going to stay long enough to get wages, and buy himself a good warm greatcoat at the very least, which will be an improvement on his current situation. And then he will have had at least two weeks' worth of good meals, which is something too. If he manages to see some magic, or read some books, or acquire some learning which will be useful elsewhere, then so much the better.

Books, magic, and money. Just for the fortnight, at the very least.

 

September 1789

Childermass, apparently, cannot tie a cravat knot with any skill whatsoever. He hears about this in detail from Norrell on a near-daily basis. He must be adequate at shaving - Norrell's face is always smooth - but he himself shaves with no great degree of regularity and care, and so Norrell complains. Norrell complains about virtually everything Childermass does, in fact, but Childermass has not been sacked thus far, and it has been three weeks now.

This is a bit of a mystery. But since the job pays well it is one one Childermass is especially interested in unraveling just at present.

Childermass has been called to serve Norrell in the library almost every day now. He has still not yet seen any magic.

That, however, is remedied one day when he is called to serve in the library again. Typically, the routine goes like this: Childermass helps Norrell dress, and then Norrell goes down for his breakfast and Childermass tends to various duties related to Norrell's clothing and minor personal affairs. When Norrell begins work for the day, he summons Childermass from whatever duties he is attending to; Childermass then spends part of his day in the library, attending to Norrell's small wants.

Technically, Childermass thinks, some of what he does ought to be the duty of a footman, but then he is not going to complain, because it means he gets to stay in the library. All of the other servants find it uncanny, and Childermass cannot blame them, for there is a very uncomfortable feeling in it - light that does not seem to come from anywhere, and whispers on the edge of hearing. It is quite dizzying. But Childermass does not mind that, for the library is quiet and peaceful and contains books on magic. Even reading the titles is a lesson.

On this day, Childermass is standing in a corner, leaning as subtly as he can against a pillar for balance. If he stands straight too long, his knees often extend too far backwards and he might stumble or fall. Most gentlemen do not consider this conduct becoming of a servant. On the other hand, most gentlemen do not consider leaning conduct becoming of a servant either, but Norrell has not seemed to notice. It is yet another of his peculiarities, although one that Childermass certainly has no quarrel with.

He is watching Norrell bend over a book, running a finger down a list. He has piled a small group of objects on the side table very neatly. It was Childermass who fetched the objects - an apple, a piece of wood, an egg, and a clear dish of water.

Norrell touches the objects one after the other. He is speaking quietly under his breath, glancing every so often back at his book. Childermass watches more closely, trying to make out the words, but they are too soft; he does not think Norrell is saying them out loud, only mouthing them soundlessly.

Abruptly, Norrell stops talking and shuts his book with a thud. At just that moment there is a sensation like the warmth of a good fire on his skin, and a sudden smell of parchment and the earth after a summer shower. It is like the feeling of rain on windows, like being on the inside of a storm yet untouched by it - an immense tension just outside yourself. It blows across Childermass like a wind and then disappears, leaving him dizzy with the notion that the world has changed and himself with it in the most minutely unobservable way.

Childermass just manages not to gasp. He wants to say, "You _are_  a magician", but he has not been so naively open since he was ten years old. Instead he says, "What was that meant to do?" because there are no observable effects, and nothing like that could possibly have failed to be effective.

Norrell glances back at him. "What was what meant to do?"

"The magic."

Norrell frowns. "How do you know it was magic?"

Childermass raises his eyebrows. "The world turns itself out - what else is it?"

"You could feel that?" Norrell is openly staring now. Childermass thinks this must be the longest Norrell has looked at him at one time for the entire period of his employment thus far.

"Of course I could," says Childermass. He is beginning to feel that he has made a mistake and revealed too much, but it is too late to cover up now - best to brazen it out.

"Hmm," says Norrell. His eyes sweep over Childermass, as if looking for evidence of - something. Childermass does not quite know what it is meant to be. Nor can Childermass entirely interpret his expression, for all his skill at that. He is not sure if it is wariness, or some sort of longing, or sadness.

"Well," Norrell says at last. "I see. Do you feel any other magic?"

"At the moment, or in general?"

"Either."

Childermass shrugs. "The library feels full of it," he says and he has just now realized that is the case, now that he has felt it truly. He hesitates, and then continues. "It is a - disorienting feeling. It turns your head around."

Norrell finally breaks his gaze. "It is for protection," he says. Then he adds, "The spell will make a pear tree in the orchard fruit apples."

Childermass blinks. "Why?" he says.

Norrell looks at Childermass as if he has done something very alien and improper. Childermass supposes he ought not to have asked the question, but inquisitiveness has always been one of his faults. Besides, there is a curious sparkle of excitement in Norrell's eye, behind the censure. Childermass thinks perhaps he does not get to speak of such things very often.

Norrell says, "The spell has some applications for other magic I am interested in. I wanted to see if it worked. We shall not know until the fruit begins to grow."

Childermass considers. "I suppose you would have to do it before it fruited," he says. "Or else it would not take effect."

"Yes. That is correct."

"I see."

Norrell turns back to his book. He seems to be done teaching magic, which is a shame, as Childermass was enjoying learning about it.

But, he thinks, perhaps he now knows how to get Norrell to talk about it. That hint of excitement - that might be something he can use.

A month, then. He thinks he can make it a month.

 

October 1789

 

Out of all the features of his new life, it is getting around that he finds most troublesome.

The labyrinth around the library gives him a certain amount of difficulty. On regular mornings it is not so bad. Norrell has a routine, and generally he sticks to this with respect to the times he begins work, so Childermass can anticipate when he will be called. If he lingers in the general area of the corridor to the library, he can generally make it in a timely fashion even on bad days. And he is learning to navigate rather well, so that he does not have to trouble the other servants.

It is far more difficult when Norrell calls him at odd hours of the day, or early in the morning before breakfast. Then he has to come from some place more distant, often another wing of the house. The labyrinth combined with the extra walking conspires to make him slow quite frequently, especially on days when he has overused his joints, or simply when they act up.

Today, just over a month into his employment, is one such day. Norrell has summoned him to the library at a ridiculous hour of the morning. Childermass is not unfamiliar with ridiculous hours of the morning, but he already begins his day early and ends it late. And Norrell is in a mood, it seems.

"You are late again," says Norrell, looking up from his book. "Really, Childermass, this is unacceptable."

"How am I to be on time when you surround your library with a labyrinth only you can successfully navigate? Sir?" Childermass asks. In truth, this is not the reason. In truth the real reason is that his legs _hurt_ , and he is walking slowly today. But he knows well enough not to tell a gentleman that - he knows well what the consequences tend to be.

In any case, the labyrinth is extremely vexing and despite his increasing skill it is a serious impediment still when he is trying to find his way here in the mornings. To say nothing of trying to retain Norrell's orders when he forgets half of what happens after he walks out. The fact of the matter is that he is cross, and he is in no mood to put up with Norrell's complaints about problems of his own making.

Norrell is regarding him with suspicion. "You found your own way here?" he asks.

"I would have been later if I would've had to wait for one of the others to show me," says Childermass. Which is true. It is very inefficient to have to rely on someone else.

"Hmm." Norrell gets that look on his face again, the same one he did when he realized Childermass could see his magic. Childermass has still not managed to interpret it.

Norrell sighs and says, "Very well, then. If it will make you more timely, then I shall unlock you." He goes over to the desk and lights a candle. He stands in front of it, holding it between his hands, and his face settles into his doing-magic expression, concentrated and thoughtful and yet at peace. Childermass cannot hear what he is murmuring, but it does not sound like English. He thinks it might be Latin.

When Norrell blows the candle out there is a sudden shock, like for a brief moment it took the entire world with it. Childermass feels as though he has flickered, or the room has, or perhaps as though they have switched places for a moment. The fire-and-water sensation of Norrell's magic washes over him, and when it leaves it takes the continuous subtle disorientation that always troubles Childermass in the library. It feels rather like watching a bubble pop looks.

"There," says Norrell. "I trust you are satisfied. And that you will not be late any longer." He returns to his work without another word.

Childermass is caught between his delight at seeing the magic done and at being a part of it and his worry about the fact that he will no longer be able to use the labyrinth as an excuse for lateness, and what will he do now when he cannot move fast enough to get there on time? He resigns himself to starting out even earlier on bad days. It's a pity he cannot use a cane indoors - perhaps that would help somewhat. But it would be remarked upon. Generally, anything that would be remarked upon is not safe.

He cannot be sacked, not now.  He wants to learn more, very badly, and he cannot do that anywhere but here. It is imperative that he stays here. It is imperative that he keeps being allowed to stay in the library, where he might read a book or two discreetly in the future perhaps, and where he might induce Norrell to speak of his profession.

Childermass stops and thinks. He says, slowly, "If you moved me to a room closer to the library - "

Norrell raises his eyebrows. "Most of the servants have no wish to be in the same wing as the library. They find it uncanny."

"I am not easily frightened," says Childermass.

"Well, you must speak to the housekeeper of it. I do not concern myself with such trivial matters."

"Yes, sir."

The housekeeper says, "There's an attic room in the same wing as the library. You are sure you will not mind being there?"

"No, ma'am," says Childermass. "It does not trouble me."

She shakes her head. "Well, if it will help you do your duties," she says doubtfully. "And to keep Mr Norrell happy, of course."

"I am not sure any thing could achieve that," says Childermass. The housekeeper tuts, but does not reprimand him.

"He likes you, I am sure of it," she declares.

"I myself cannot see it."

"He has not dismissed you yet, has he?" she points out, which Childermass cannot contest.

The new room is only accessible by stairs, but they are shallow with a decent bannister. His former room was an upstairs one anyway, so he has lost nothing. It takes him longer to get to the servants' quarters, but that has, at least, regular hours. When Norrell calls him at odd hours now he can dress and descend more quickly now.

He is not late again, or not intolerably so. Norrell continues to complain, but Childermass is learning to differentiate when this means something and when it seems to be merely a way of taking his feelings out.

He thinks he is getting a handle on things.


	2. 1790

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Childermass begins to prove his mettle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday is going to be busy so I'm uploading it early. It's tomorrow in Europe already so whatever, it counts. 
> 
> I also forgot to mention that this fic has a mix! I've added that in the main notes. To let y'all know, chapters will be getting a bit longer as the fic progresses. The first was the shortest.

 

January 1790

Each time Norrell gets a new valet, he has to begin the process over again.

It is very complicated. The bindings cannot be found by some one else. They clearly have only one purpose and Norrell is very afraid that if they should be discovered he would be very vulnerable.

He has made enemies. He knows he has. He cannot have a valet running around telling stories. Telling the truth.

Every day, Childermass comes in to help him dress. Norrell has always donned his binding-vest and his shirt already, so that he is safe. The vests themselves stay safely in the drawer, buried under several layers of shirts. He has to wash them out by hand in the basin, which is very vexing, but unavoidable.

It is, all in all, an arrangement that works.

For a long while, anyway. Until one day when he is nearly out of clean shirts and he forgets to set out his clothes the night before, so that his routine is disrupted. This means he is not at all at his usual level of dressed when Childermass comes in.

Norrell is looking around for his shirt in vain, when Childermass comes in. Norrell stands there in his nightshirt, blinking at him.

Childermass raises his eyebrows.

"I cannot find my shirt," says Norrell, uncertainly. He is not thinking very clearly with Childermass here upsetting him - alarm buzzes at the edge of his mind and slows his thoughts. He is blinking quickly, nervously.

Childermass crosses over to the chest of drawers with Norrell's things in them. And before Norrell can say anything, can snap _don't do that_ , he has opened the drawer and withdrawn the last shirt.

He notices, of course. Norrell's throat closes with panic as Childermass pulls out one of the vests.

"I take it this is part of your usual attire," says Childermass. Norrell cannot read his expression; it is a blank. He shakes. Childermass will know - he cannot miss the purpose - if he finds this one little thing everything will fall into place and Norrell does not know what to do -

Childermass comes forward and sets Norrell's things on the bed right next to where Norrell is standing, and then moves behind him. Norrell's shoulders are so tense he can feel the stiffness developing in them.

"Raise your arms, sir," Childermass says. He pulls the nightshirt over Norrell's head. Norrell's breathing quickens in terror - perhaps Childermass has not understood, and now he will, and now the repercussions will come - there is so much that could go wrong and so very few ways it could go right -

But Childermass only slides the holes of the vest down over Norrell's arms. He moves slowly and gently, as if giving Norrell time to acclimatize to this new idea. He does not touch the bare skin of Norrell's arms, or his back. Norrell holds himself tight, compressed, so that he cannot accidentally brush against Childermass's hand. He cannot stop the unsteady fast breathing that comes from the fact that does not know where this encounter is going to go.

"It laces in the back, I take it," says Childermass.

"Yes."

"It must be very difficult to do it up by yourself." Childermass is pulling the laces tight with a brisk efficiency.

"Exceedingly," Norrell says, catching his breath against the steady push-pull motion of the lacing. His voice is still trembling. "I have some difficulty in getting it tight enough."

"Well, you just leave that to me, sir," says Childermass. His tone is low and soothing, as if he is talking to something small and frightened, and Norrell would be insulted if he did not feel just that right now.

The laces are comfortingly tight against his back. He has not felt so secure in a long time. He breathes in and out; his chest is not so far restricted against movement as to make this difficult.

"Yes," he says. "This is acceptable work, Childermass. Much better than your cravat knots."

"Which are dreadful," says Childermass. Norrell can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I know, sir. I think you have made the point sufficiently by now."

"I merely point out your faults for correction. You need not take that tone."

"Yes, sir." Childermass holds out Norrell's shirt for him. "If you would like to finish getting dressed now?"

Norrell puts the shirt on. He does not even complain about the neckcloth, when it is tied. He has to admit, grudgingly, that Childermass is getting better.

Childermass's hands feel heavy on his shoulders as he slides the coat on over Norrell's arms. The feeling is not unwelcome. Like the vest, it calls to mind a sense of long-forgotten security. It is must better than the horrible fluttering light touch that most fellows use.

He very carefully does not look at Childermass when Childermass kneels down to put on his shoes. Instead he gazes at the wall. He can hear the squeak as Childermass braces himself against the bed to rise.

"Do you need anything else, sir?" says Childermass at last. Norrell looks at him, finally, a little afraid of what he will see in him.

He is standing with his hands in front of him, with his usual insolence and no more. A bit less, perhaps. He does not look ready to run off, taking tales to the nearest upset bookseller. He does not look ready to do anything menacing except, possibly, employ his usual level of sarcasm.

"No," says Norrell, realizing it has been too long since he spoke last. He cannot tamp down the relief in his voice.

Childermass gives a little half-bow and says "If you will excuse me, then."

Norrell stares at Childermass's back in wonder as he retreats. _He knows_ , he thinks. _And he said nothing._  The way Childermass looks at him has not changed.

Perhaps he can be trusted.

Perhaps - perhaps Norrell does not have to do this alone.

It almost seems a waste to have the man acting purely as a valet...

April 1790

Norrell is standing in front of a book and tutting. This, Childermass knows, is generally not a good sign. He rises, leaving behind the sketch of the library he had been doing, and peeks at the book to determine the source of the malaise.

And, ah, here it is. The book is of the most unusual sort for Norrell. He glances over the title, and suppressed a smirk. It is so very incongruous.

"Love spells," he says. "That does not seem your style."

Norrell frowns. "That much I had deduced," he says. "And it is generally not. You can read French?"

"A bit." More than a bit. Better than he can speak it, in fact, or so he has been told. But it does not do to shew one's advantages too early. "Can't you?"  
  
Norrell looks away and makes a face. He says, "I can read Anglo-Saxon, Medieval German, Latin, Ancient Greek, and Hebrew," he says. "And a little basic Sidhe, with time."  
  
Childermass raises an eyebrow. "I take it the answer is no, then."  
  
Norrell's frown deepens. "I have had other things to do."  
  
"Do they not teach you French at school?" says Childermass. "I thought that was what gentleman learned."  
  
"I did not spend very much time at school," says Norrell. There is something stiff in the line of his shoulders and Childermass realizes he has stumbled upon a sore topic. Which is asking to be sacked, so he shrugs instead. "Well," he says. "I suppose you had too many dead languages to concentrate on to bother with live ones."  
  
"There is very little written today in books that is worth reading," says Norrell. "At least in a serious scholarly manner."  
  
Childermass's eyes flick to the book. He raises an eyebrow again.  
  
"Yes, yes," says Norrell, sighing. "It is hardly important at all. I did not even want these books. The bookseller is - " He shakes his head and tuts, as if unable to proper articulate a list of the bookseller's sins. "I need an agent in order to make certain my will is carried out. But they are here now and it is unfortunate that I cannot at least read through them and see if there are any useful references."  
  
Childermass considers. "I could give it a try," he says. "The reading."  
  
Norrell looks at him hard. "I do not think a bit of French will be sufficient," he says.  
  
"Will you let me try?"  
  
Norrell frowns at the book and then back at Childermass. "Very well," he says. "But do not read any of the spells out loud. The effects could be catastrophic."  
  
"That much I had gathered," says Childermass in an ironical tone. Norrell shoots him a look of censure but says nothing.  
  
As he sits down with the book he says, "I can ride, too."  
  
"I am sorry?"  
  
Childermass looks up at him. "I can ride. You said you needed an agent."  
  
"Oh." Norrell blinks. "That is hardly within the typical suite of duties for a valet."  
  
"You do tell me that my cravat knots are intolerable," Childermass says, pulling a pencil and piece of paper towards him. "Perhaps I can be of more use to you in this capacity."  
  
"Hmm," says Norrell. "The quality of my cravats do not matter so much here. My studies are much more vital."

With this he leaves Childermass to his translating, returning to the book he had been at earlier. He says no more of it the, only gives Norrell time to think on the idea.  
  
There is always the possibility that he has taken too much  of a chance, but he does not think he has. Norrell does not seem offended.  
  
So he waits.

June1790

Eventually, he is rewarded with an assignment outside the house.

"You said you could ride," Norrell says to him abruptly one morning when Childermass appears for his duties.

"Yes," says Childermass, "I can, sir." He is quite a good rider provided he stops every few hours to ease his legs, in fact.

"Can you ride to Hebden Bridge and negotiate with a bookseller there?"

Childermass nods. "When shall I set out?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Very well. And what is it you would like me to negotiate for?"

Norrell produces a piece of paper from his desk. "I have a list of books I need," he says. "He is not to send me any others, unless they were created before the year 1700. Tell him that specifically. He has sent me far too much rubbish in the past and I have been powerless to prevent it. I have sent the books back, but it is such fuss and he will never return my money properly." Norrell makes a face.

"Why do you deal with him, then?" asks Childermass.

"Because most of the best books of magic in the West Riding come to him. I do not know how he does it." Norrell sniffs disapprovingly. "I would gladly do business with some other person, believe me."

"I will set out tomorrow at first light."

"Good."

The ride to Hebden is uneventful. Childermass takes it easy and is there in good time to meet the bookseller at the assigned time.

"I've come from Norrell," he says when he walks into the shop.

The bookseller - whose name is Giles - looks suspiciously at him. "Hurtfew Abbey?" he asks.

"Only Norrell I know of," says Childermass. Giles' look darkens. Childermass scolds himself for letting his tongue get the best of him, but the man has an unpleasant look.

Giles clicks his tongue. "Tell him the books will not be ready until tomorrow," he says. "I have been having supply problems."

"I will wait," says Childermass. "Supply problems, you say?"

"Yes. I do not mind telling you, it is no business, this." Giles sighs. "I may get out of it, you know. Novels sell well these days."

"Hmmm," says Childermass. "You would have no more business from Mr Norrell."

"No," says Giles. "I assure you, that is a matter of great satisfaction to me." He leans on the counter. "Your master is not the most pleasant man to deal with."

Childermass shrugs. This is almost certainly true. He is not certain why the bookseller expects him to care. He says, "Perhaps you ought to change your stock, then. Not be bothered with him any more."

"Yes." Giles eyes him thoughtfully. "I had not considered it like that."

"You might give it some thought," says Childermass. He doffs his hat. "If you will excuse me, I will return first thing tomorrow."

The books are there tomorrow just as promised. Childermass looks over them before paying for them. They seem to be genuine and in good condition, and none of them were made before 1700, at least as far as he can tell.

It is likely not due to his influence, but all the same, Giles' final remark as he is paying for the books is gratifying.

"You can tell him this till be the last lot from me," he says. "I will be getting into a new business, boy. It is far too much trouble for the money."

Childermass bristles at _boy_ , but lets it go. "Sorry to hear that," he says, picking up the books. "Good luck with your new business."

Giles grunts. Childermass stops and thinks for a moment. "Where do you think the books will go, after you are out of it?" Childermass asks.

Giles frowns. "Not here in Hebden Bridge. I am the only one interested in such things. I recommend you try Mr Redmayne in Halifax. He's always trying to snatch up my books to sell. I suppose he will succeed now."

Childermass nods. He does not technically have time, but he rides to Halifax and calls on Mr Redmayne anyway before he goes ho- back to Hurtfew. Not home. He does not have a home.

There are no books for him to buy, but he takes a card from the man and makes the connexion. That is certainly a start.

Childermass has far overstepped Norrell's orders. He realizes this fully, and he is not sure what the reaction will be.

Well, he has the books. That must count for something.

When he gets back to Hurtfew Abbey he leaves the horse with the stableboy and goes straight in with the books to set them down in front of Norrell. Then he says, "I've got you a new bookseller. I shall tell you about it when I have made myself presentable." And he walks out.

It is rash, but calculated. He needs to give time Norrell to think about what has happened, and to look at the books, which are just what he wanted. If he stays while this happens, Norrell will berate him without listening to him. This way he might have a chance.

He removes his greatcoat, washes himself, and re-fastens his hair.

Then he goes down.

"Mr Norrell wants to see you in the study," says Dido when he comes down. "You'd best get on fast."

Childermass nods, and makes his way to Norrell's study. The door is open, so he comes in and leans against the far wall. He does not speak, and nor does Norrell.

In fact Norrell just looks at him for a while. Childermass resists, just, the urge to snap 'did you call me here for a purpose?' Instead he folds his arms and looks at Norrell. It is not good servantly behavior; he should look down and away, should avoid eye contact. He does not do any of these things.

Finally, Norrell says, "You read very well in two languages. Your penmanship is dreadful and your spelling mediocre but that can be fixed with time. How are your sums?"

"Acceptable," says Childermass. "If you find them unsatisfactory, I learn quickly."

Norrell says, "You are not to be my valet any longer."

Childermass does not hold his breath. This would be far too obviously revealing his state of mind. But he does send up a silent half-formed prayer to anyone listening.

Norrell continues, "You are to be my man of business, effective immediately. I shall still require you to help me dress, but young Lucas shall deal with my clothes. I believe he has a much better idea of what to do with them."

"I suppose his cravat knots are vastly superior," says Childermass to disguise his relief.

"That will not be a part of his duties. In any case, I have told you before that does not matter."

"Yet you still complain about them. Sir."

Norrell ignores this. "You will deal with my business matters, as the title implies."

"And what counts as business matters?"

"Anything I need you to do," says Norrell. "Primarily, matters related to my profession."

"Magic."

"The study of magic. I shall need you to go about the country finding information and things for me, at times. And there will be other duties. You will see to some matters related to my estate, for instance."

"Yes sir," says Childermass.

"I shall teach you some Latin and Greek," Norrell says. "You will be of more use to me in my field thus."

"As you wish, sir," says Childermass. He is working very hard to maintain his composure. Inside he feels strangely light. He is nineteen and has the care of an estate. Not exclusively, and in fact he expects it will mostly be collecting rents, but this is still more trust than anyone has put in him in a very long time. Since he left. Even Norrell's patronizing way of expressing his wishes cannot dampen his mood. And he will learn to read more languages, which means that if he leaves this position it will have enriched him considerably. Even without proper references. Men who know Greek and Latin, even a little Greek and Latin, men who can write and spell well - men like that get positions.

There is a corner of Childermass's soul, much stamped-down by circumstances but never, ever extinguished, dedicated over to the ambition to be something greater. To be someone respected. To be seen.

Right at this very moment, he feels as though that corner has flared into life like a candle will after sputtering in the wind.

For the first time in a very long time, he has hope.


	3. 1791

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular owes a lot to Moll and her fic and her assistance with Childermass-with-CP stuff. Not that the whole fic doesn't, but.
> 
> Anyway, Norrell has a meltdown in this chapter so if you're likely to be upset please take care.

February 1791

Childermass is acquitting himself acceptably. More so, in fact, than Norrell had expected. He is quick about his work and Norrell is finding him an able employee - especially after his change in position. Childermass has negotiated with three separate agents to produce excellent results, has ridden to York in the dead of night to see to a matter of business which Norrell himself did not know what to do about, and he seems to be managing his responsibilities regarding the estate rather well. He is also coming along rapidly at his Latin. To say nothing of - well, he has one of Norrell's secrets now and he has not acted upon it in any way.

Unfortunately, he is also very good at being silent and this frequently makes Norrell forget his presence. Which leads to a rather upsetting incident.

Norrell's emotions are close to the surface today. He woke up this morning peculiarly fragile - it is something that happens, there seems to be no logical reason - and now everything feels very intense. He is trying to distract himself with a quiet day of research.

It has, so far, been working quite well. In a minor work of magic he has found some references to a most fascinating spell which he thinks will help him properly reconstruct an incantation by Martin Pale. It is to calm troubled minds, a skill which he thinks might be quite useful for his own purposes.

To his great excitement, he finds that Pevensey makes reference to such a spell. Indeed, he has a garbled version of the form of it written down! Norrell runs his finger down the page. Yes! He had thought previously that this was only a garbled bit of nursery-rhyme, as so much of magic is mixed with, but no. With context it is clear that it is a hint as to the true nature of the spell!

Norrell is certain that he can reconstruct it given enough time. Delight at the prospect of a promising new research direction and anticipation of the challenge ahead fills him. He reads through the spell another time, hearing it in his mind's eye. The first piece is clearly meant to invoke a benevolent power, perhaps a saint, which likely means it might be done away with, but the second piece -

He can feel eyes on him. He looks up and meets Childermass's gaze across the room.

Norrell realizes he has been shaking his hand out the entire time. The gesture is a curious one, he knows. He holds his hands at chest level and flaps them back and forth, as an outlet for his feelings. It is something he does only when he is in the grip of some particularly strong emotion, but he generally does not allow it unless he is alone. Today, in his fragility, he has slipped.

And Childermass has been here.

Childermass has seen.

Norrell's heart freezes in shame and fear. He does not know what to say - words seem to desert him in his terror. He has no defense for himself, no good reason he can offer for this very odd motion. What will Childermass say?

But Childermass gives no indication that he has noticed anything out of the ordinary. He is sitting at his desk doing some piece of business -writing letters, Norrell thinks - and his eyes are back on the paper now. But he must have seen. Norrell is certain that he must have seen.

Childermass says nothing. Nevertheless, Norrell wonders unhappily about it all throughout the rest of his studying time.

Unfortunately, this incident - on top of a day that is already difficult - proves another shattering blow to his composure, so that it only takes another very small incident to tip him over the edge into despair.

That evening he is in his room, taking a late cup of tea and trying to calm his nerves. Childermass is leaning against a wall, waiting patiently to undress him.

His coordination, however, is not all that he could wish today, and therefore when he goes to put the cup down, he misses the tray and it drops on the floor. It shatters.

The noise is horrible, a clashing crash of delicate china against the floor. Norrell flinches, and covers his ears, and squeezes his eyes shut. A flash of horrible dread and despair swells up in him, unbidden, all out of proportion with the nature of the accident.

"Sir?" says Childermass, levering himself off the column where he has been leaning.

"I - I - " begins Norrell. He cannot seem to form the rest of the sentence. He is trembling, which means he is unlikely to be able to postpone it, and suddenly he needs Childermass gone _now_.

"Get out," says Norrell. "Get out, get out." Words are draining away from his tongue as his thought scatter. He cannot stop himself from repeating the words like a chant, and finds a momentary comfort in their rhythm.

"Mr Norrell - " begins Childermass

Norrell snarls "Go, damn you!"

Childermass nods after a moment, and then gives a shallow bow and leaves the room.

Norrell sits and shakes and rocks back and forth. His body seems to be too small for the emotions contained in it, and they spill out into motion he can't control - pounding fists and clawing hands, at anything he can reach. The anger ebbs and flows the way it always does, leaving him exhausted before filling him again. He reaches for a pillow and squeezes it, his grip unsteady. He wants to scream but he cannot - Childermass is just outside the door and he'll hear - he rocks faster, shakes his hands, buries his face in the cushion and tries to make it go away -

It does not but he settles for biting the pillow. This helps. It hurts less than grinding his teeth. He thinks distantly that he will have to remember.

After a while it subsides. He never has any sense of time passing, not really, so it may have been an hour or it may have been ten minutes.

But somehow Childermass knows, because there is a knock at the door. His voice feels rusty and scratching. He says, "What?" harshly, not bothering to mitigate the tone. He does not care. He does not care. Nothing matters now, in the wake of the fit. Mostly he wants to sleep.

Childermass enters quietly. Norrell looks up at him, and then away.

There is a long silence between them. Then Childermass says, "What do you need?"

Norrell shakes his head. For a moment he cannot stop shaking it, and then he gets control of himself again.

Childermass seems to consider this a response of sorts, and rephrases the question. "Do you need anything?"

Norrell shrugs.

"Cup of tea?"

Norrell clutches at the arm of the chair. "- was not about the tea," he says hoarsely.

"But do you want one?"

After a moment, Norrell nods. Childermass nods back and returns after a few long moments with it, and sets it down.

Norrell's fingers are still shaking a little but his hands are steady enough that he can take the cup - without dropping it - and breath in the hot steam from it. His head feels achy and full of wool, the way it always does after one of his fits.

He keeps waiting for Childermass to say something, anything, about it. He thinks fervently that if he mocks him, he will dismiss him, no matter what he knows. But that does not come. Childermass's eyes are unreadable but that is better than mockery, or, worse, the cloying pity that comes sometimes as an alternative.

After a while, Childermass says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," says Norrell. "There is nothing to talk about. They are a kind of fit. They occur sporadically with the most mundane provocation, they have ever since I was a child, and there is nothing I can do about them."

"I see," says Childermass. "Is there anything I should know regarding what to do about them?"

Norrell takes a sip of his tea,which has cooled sufficiently. He does not want to talk about this, but he supposes it is better for Childermass to have some idea of the guidelines.

"I do not like to be touched during a fit. It is very uncomfortable. But if you must touch me it should be firmly. Light touches are intolerable. If there are any loose books in the room, remove them. Then leave me alone."

Childermass nods. He asks no more questions, only leaves Norrell with his tea.

Norrell is once again left with the curious off-balance feeling of being unexpectedly accepted.

August 1791

For all Childermass's efficiency and ready tolerance of Norrell's...unusual nature, he does have his own oddities. Norrell has noticed that once or twice he has stumbled in circumstances where most people do not seem to. His balance is not so good as might be expected in someone of his stature and deftness of hand. He moves slowly at times, too.

Norrell ignores these, for the most part, because they are not important. But one particular incident means something else entirely.

It is a morning on which there are repairmen in the house. Norrell does not know what they are doing; there is a reason he entrusts these matters to someone else. He thinks it is something to do with making some part of the house more structurally sound.

He does know that he was not adequately warned about the incident, and that the horrible screech of metal against metal keeps echoing through the house.

It is most terribly distracting, a high-pitched agonizing tearing in his ears like an ice pick. It echoes through his mind and drives cold iron up through his skull. He feels as though he would rather lose his sense of hearing than endure it every time it rings out. He wants to rock, or to move his hands, but he will not. He concentrates fiercely on his book.

Until he looks up and at Childermass. He is bearing the sound with his usual stoicism for the most part, which Norrell finds unsurprising; he has never yet seen Childermass otherwise. Except for one thing. One small thing that is not small at all.

Childermass is rubbing the thumb of one hand against the palm of the other. Every time the sound echos through the library, he does so particularly hard, as if to chase it out of his head.

Norrell cannot stop himself from inhaling a sharp breath. His own hands are still motionless - he has made sure of that - but if they were not, they might be doing something quite similar. Norrell would instead be rubbing two hands together - Childermass's gesture is not the same, and yet it is still so very close to his. The familiarity sends cold ice sliding down his spine.

He has never known anyone else who does this. He has never known anyone else who moved like he does. His eyes seem to be locked on to Childermass's hands. It is such a discreet little motion - Norrell almost did not notice it. Which is very queer, because when his own hands dance it seems as though the whole world is watching, as though everyone can see. He wonders if Childermass feels the same.

He looks back up at Childermass and realizes that beneath his ever-present neutrality is discomfort. It feels like something snapping into place in his head, as if the hands were the first thread and the whole garment is now unravelling with the addition of that little piece of knowledge. The muscles in Childermass's jaw are tight, and the lines of his shoulders are tense. His mouth his set in a grim line. Childermass is upset, and he is upset, most likely, by the noise.

No one has ever been upset by a noise the way Norrell is continuously being. No one has ever been so hostile in their manner to a sound that most find untroubling. No one except Norrell himself.

He finds himself unable to stop blurting out, "The sound is very displeasing."

Childermass glances back at him with wary eyes. "Yes," he says. "It is."

"I find it gives me a most unpleasant feeling in the back of my head," says Norrell. "I shall have to speak to someone about making it stop."

"The repairs are, I believe, necessary," says Childermass. There is weariness in his voice, Norrell notices. "It is best to get them over with, sir. Then you will not have to deal with it any more."

"I do not like it. It disrupts my concentration. I cannot work this way." Norrell hesitates. "I am sure you find the same."

Childermass does not answer, only looks at him, which Norrell finds very disconcerting. He averts his own eyes. His hands in his lap itch to move, remembering the slow pained rub of Childermass's thumb on his palm. He wants to echo the motion, to act it out. But he has long since learned the secret of conquering such feelings. He curls his hands into fists, digging the nails into the palms until they sting, and takes a breath.

"That will be all," he says. "I want to be alone. I am sure you have other duties to attend to."

Childermass nods slowly and bows his shallow bow. "Sir," he says, and leaves.

When he is gone Norrell gives in to temptation and tries Childermass's motion. He does not find it quite as comforting as his own, but he supposes these things would differ among the people they are specific to. And it has its own attractions - a small distracting pressure. He does not allow himself to shake his hands out, as he might wish to, but instead proceeds to reading.

He tries to put the incident out of his mind. He does not entirely succeed.

November 1791

For a very long while, Childermass tries to hide it. In his new position of responsibility, especially, he does not want to reveal any vulnerability about himself. He does not wish to show weakness. He leans insolently and pretends it is not a way to keep his knees from giving out. He sits down whenever he can, but does so nonchalantly, as if to flout convention, not to rest his legs.

Norrell does not seem to notice. Norrell does not seem to notice any of it. Childermass is not sure if this is due to his focus on other things, or if he simply intentionally ignores it. Childermass does not think him the type to spare his feelings out of sensitivity. Perhaps he simply does not care about the behavior of his servants provided they are not troubling him.

Once, coming down the stairs to the library, Childermass stumbles quite badly and almost does not catch himself. He has to stand there for a moment, breathing shakily and grasping at a column for support. Norrell looks up at him, then back down at his book quickly, as if he does not want to be caught. As if he does not wish Childermass to know he is looking at him.

Childermass wonders if he is feeling sorry for him. The thought makes his stomach turn, but if he is, then perhaps he will not dismiss him. Pride is all very well, but money is money, he thinks, and hates that he has to think it.

Childermass is shaken enough to put his hand in his pocket and find his cards. He ruffles them, feels their reassuringly familiar texture in his hand. He cannot bring them out into the open - he has no desire to risk discovery - but their touch calms him, and when Norrell calls him to fetch a basin of water he feels stable enough to do so.

He moves more slowly than normal. He cannot tell if Norrell notices this or not.

But things cannot last forever. One day he is again in pain, and he has been sent to fetch water twice, besides running an unusual number of other errands today. His legs feel ready to buckle under him.

Childermass grips the edge of the table to stay upright. He cannot sit down just now. Leaning against the table is an option; he transfers as much of his weight to his arms as he can. It is a little better. He does not think he will collapse just now.

He breathes out slowly. And notices Norrell looking at him.

Norrell says, "There is no need to be covert about it."

Childermass breathes in sharply. "I do not know what you mean," he says.

Norrell's gaze is resolutely on the floor. "I have seen it. And you have seen mine."

Childermass's gaze settles on Norrell's hands. Right now they are very still, but Childermass has seen them moving. And, yes, he has seen much more - he remembers Norrell's fit and wonders how often he has them.

"I have," he says carefully. For once he has no idea how this conversation is going to go, and it is a very disconcerting feeling. A vulnerable feeling. Shrugging, he lowers himself into a chair, wincing a little.

"You hide it," says Norrell.

"I've been sacked for it," says Childermass. "Anyway, so do you."

"I have been mocked for it," says Norrell.

Childermass nods. "And you are not going to sack me?"

"Not at present. Not for this. I make no promises for other reasons, of course." Norrell shrugs. "If your performance is unsatisfactory to me in any way I shall, of course, terminate your employment."

"Of course," says Childermass dryly.

"But as for this," says Norrell. His face twists oddly for a moment. "No. You can hardly - " He shakes his head. "You have thus far been of more use to me than most other servants. So I do not want you to leave at the moment."

This, from Norrell, is an accolade of staggering proportions. Childermass blinks in surprize.

"Thank you," he says.

"It was a statement of fact," says Norrell. "Not a compliment."

There is silence for a moment.

Then Norrell begins, "What is it - " and bites it off.

"Sorry?"

"It is only... Clearly they are different - our peculiarities." Norrell clears his throat. "But there seem to be some similarities. I have never spoken to someone else who found the sound of metal clashing so very disagreeable. I wondered what it was like for you."

Childermass stills. If not knowing where this conversation was headed was vulnerability, this is like tearing open your chest. But -

"It feels as though it scrapes across my nerves and insinuates itself into my head," he says. "It is like a knife."

"Yes," says Norrell. He takes a deep breath. "I find it much the same. I have seen you make motions - "

"Yes. It calms the pain."

"Do you do it for other purposes?"

"Not very many others. Mostly only when I am - nervous. Upset."

Norrell looks at his own hands. "I could wish that were the case in my own situation," he says.

Childermass fiddles a bit with the papers in front of him. He picks up a pencil and begins sketching an eye. He asks, "Does yours cause you pain? In general, not with regards to sound."

"No," says Norrell. "The effects seem to be largely on my disposition and mannerisms and patterns of thought. Primarily mental, you see. Although I have always had a poor sense of balance and coordination. I have observed that you...?"

"Yes. Mostly it is bodily in nature. Some other things, of course. The noises."

Norrell nods. "I see," he says. "Well. If you - " he stops, and begins again. "I would prefer to have you operating as efficiently as possible. I am sure you know perfectly well what you require to keep yourself in good order. Take measures to ensure that this occurs. You need not explain yourself." He blinks a little, as if nervous about having said too much.

"Thank you," says Childermass. A tension he was not fully aware of seems to have eased off his chest. He had not wanted to lose this position - it is certainly partly that. There is the money, of course. And now he has learned how to make Norrell speak of magic, so he is learning still more. It is very useful - he could not find out such useful things in any other place but this one.  

But beneath that is another relief. It is - all his life people have been assuming that his differences make him incompetent, or else that he could overcome them if only he tried hard enough. Norrell has done neither of these. He has given Childermass permission to make things easier for himself without patronizing him. And, beyond that, he has revealed his own weaknesses to Childermass. There is a sense of holding something precious in the palm of your hand, small and easily-crushed, and instead of crushing it, giving a small tender thing of your own in return.

The silence has gone on too long, Childermass realizes. Norrell is looking at him steadily, but when Childermass brings his eyes up to Norrell's, Norrell drops his own.

"If you do not mind," says Childermass finally. "I shall begin on your correspondence."

"Yes," says  Norrell. "You have been neglecting that of late. It does not do, Childermass."

"Of course, sir," says Childermass, hiding a smile. He pulls a letter towards him and begins composing a reply.


	4. 1792

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all there's A PODFIC a wonderful person IS PODFICCING THIS, look: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4958326
> 
> There's another meltdown in this chapter. Norrell's having a tumultuous time of it right now, poor lamb. Also, the unofficial title of this chapter is "In Which Childermass Realizes He Is Totally Screwed".

January 1792

 

Childermass brings in the mail and leaves it on the desk. Norrell picks it up, absently, and leafs through it, sorting as he goes into 'burn', 'deal with', and 'leave for Childermass to deal with'.

Request to see his library. Business letter. Another library request. Several more letters on matters of business. Request from old school "friend" for money - Norrell sneers at this. As if anyone from school would have called him their friend.

At the bottom of the pile there is an odd-looking letter. It has black borders, he realizes. Who could possibly be -

A funeral invitation. His breath comes quick. It is for his uncle, of course. His father's elder brother. His last remaining close relative on that side, he thinks. None now.

That, at least, is a blessing.

He will have to go to the funeral. It is highly unfortunate, but he cannot think of any way around it. Not to do so would invite too many questions, and he cannot risk the possibility that someone will come _here_  and question him about it.

Norrell stares at the invitation and feels his throat closing in dread.

He rings for Childermass, of course. Childermass appears from whatever business he was on, something to do with the household staff, which Norrell has increasingly had him managing.

"Sir," he says. "What is the matter?"

Norrell flaps his hands unhappily and then begins rubbing them together, far too worried to stop himself. It is only Childermass. He says, "Read the letter."

Childermass plucks the missive off the desk and reads through it, leaning against the desk.

"Were you close to your uncle?" he says.

"Not remotely." Norrell makes a face. "Nevertheless I must go."

Childermass nods. "Your relatives," he says. "The ones who will be there. When did they see you last?"

"Since before I was in breeches, most of them," says Norrell.

"I see. Going to be difficult to explain why you are now," says Childermass.

"Yes." The tight white anxious feeling in his throat grows. "I cannot - I cannot - "

Childermass comes to stand beside Norrell. "You are all right," he says quietly. "You need not do anything you do not want to. Tell me what it is you cannot do and I will ensure that it does not happen."

Norrell closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. "I c-cannot dress - I cannot pretend to be - "

"No," says Childermass. "No. That is not the solution. I would never have suggested that. Breathe, sir."

Norrell sucks in another breath and nods.

"We will make this work," says Childermass. His tone is firm and reassuring and it makes Norrell's breathing ease.

"I do not know how," he says, crossly. "I do not see how it can be done."

"Well, what have you done thus far?" Childermass pulls a chair up next to Norrell and sits in it. "You need not tell me anything you do not wish to, but I need to know what measures you took to prevent discovery."

Norrell nods again. "I am an only child, but I had the records changed so that my parents had two children. A girl who died when she was very young and a boy who survived."

"How secure are you that the changes have stuck?"

"I - it was years ago, and the judge I bribed is dead now, so I do not think there will be any threat from that corner. I have changed all the documents in my own family's possession," Norrell says. "But I do not know what explanation to give them to tell why they never saw him - me - when I was a child."

"You were sickly," supplies Childermass. "You could not travel. Your parents did not wish to speak of you, because they were afraid you would die."

Norrell shivers. "Supposing they ask too many questions?"

"And find what? That the records show there were two Norrell children, and one died. Here you are. Nothing to question. You said you were not close to them. I do not believe they will care."

Norrell clutches the arm of his chair and nods a final time.

"We have it under control," says Childermass.

And they do. Childermass promises him to go and see the records, and when he returns he assures Norrell that all is well.

So Norrell goes to the funeral, wearing stiff and unfamiliar black clothing new-bought for the occasion. The funeral itself is not so bad. Very few people make noise, and he is able to ignore the sermon.

But after the funeral, there is the house to go to. Being a full day's journey away, Norrell is invited, like most of the family, to stay the night at the uncle's former mansion.

This means he is unfortunately required to go to supper.

The atmosphere is not very funereal. He supposes nobody liked the man any more than he did, but this means there are a large number of people talking around him and making noise. There is jostling and all sorts of strong smells and he feels thoroughly lost and overwhelmed. His head aches.

The lady next to him says, "Norrell, is it not? I take it you are Edmund and Cecy's boy, then."

"Yes," says Norrell, tensing.

"I did not know they had one. I thought they had a girl. Have you a sister?" asks the lady.

"I did. She died."

"How tragic. It is curious that they never spoke of you."

"I was sickly. They thought I would die too," says Norrell. He thinks, too late, that perhaps he ought to have phrased that differently.

The lady's eyebrows raise. "Gracious," she says. "Tragedy haunts your family, I see. I am very sorry to hear that. Well, it is nice to have met you. I do wish I saw Edmund and Cecy more before the they were gone."

Norrell clears his throat. "Many have said the same," he says. This is not strictly true. He has not spoken to any of his family's friends since he was thirteen years old.

"Well, Mr Norrell, what do you do?"

"I study magic, madam," says Norrell. He cannot help the faint trace of excitement that creeps into his voice at this.

The lady laughs and nudges the man next to her. "Mr Norrell studies magic! Cecy's son, you do remember. Who would have thought?"

"Ah!" says the man, leaning forward. "Have you seen any fairies lately, Mr Norrell?"

"That - no," says Mr Norrell. "That is not what magic is about, at all."

The man laughs as well. "Well, we all know what magicians are!" he says. "I am sure you are theoretical, no doubt?"

"Yes," says Norrell. There is certainly no chance of him revealing his true profession, not in this crowd.

"That's all right, then," says the man. "Everyone knows that practical magicians are charlatans, don't they?"

Norrell looks down unhappily. He would say the same of any other practical magician with no hesitation, that is certainly true, but it is most uncomfortable to hear himself described this way. He says, "Yes, certainly."

He is forced to endure the other diners' opinions on magic for the rest of the supper. It is very difficult not to begin talking about it, but it feels unwise. He moves his hands under the table, agitatedly, when the subject comes back up.

Even worse, people keep asking him about his sister. He is obliged to invent an imaginary illness for her, and he keeps getting the details confused.

By the time the meal is over he is shaky, overwhelmed, his head full of fluff and his movements uncoordinated. It feels as though he is slogging through mud. He wants nothing more than a quiet moment alone to read and get himself back together.

He hurries towards his room, thinking of a book he had left on the arm of his chair to read when he returned. As he lets himself in he goes over the plan in his mind. Read until he calms down, perhaps have a cup of tea -

The book is not there.

Norrell had put it there specifically. He knows he did. He remembers distinctly. But it is not there. He looks around on the floor, in case it should have fallen, but it is not -

That, there, that is the final straw. There is the split second wave of mindless panic that breaks and leaves behind anger and he cannot stop it. He sits down in the chair, hides his eyes in one hand and balls the other into a fist. He begins to rock, and the trembling starts.

To his own horror, he begins to cry, his shoulders shaking. This does not happen often during fits - only especially bad ones. He had not quite realized, until this very moment, just how deeply he was affected. But he is not alone - this is some one else's house - he cannot give in -

He cannot stop it.

Childermass comes in with the book a few minutes later. He looks at Norrell evenly.

"Go away," says Norrell, fitting it in between silent gasps. He hates Childermass then, Childermass and himself and his relatives and the book that was not there. He hates everything.

Childermass sets the book down on the arm of Norrell's chair, within his reach. "Do you need anything?" he says.

Norrell shakes his head; he cannot form more coherent sentences right now. But Childermass leaves and shuts the door.

And so Norrell collapses, quietly, with the pain of it, embracing it fully, pulling it down into him. If he does not resist it will be over sooner and purged from him. He rocks, remembering the awful mixture of shame and terror and physical discomfort. The sobs, at least, are mostly silent. Occasionally one he cannot repress slips out, or a wet gasp for breath will emerge, but he does not think anyone will hear him. At least the tears lessen the urge to scream.

Childermass brings tea at the end, just as he always does. Norrell is distantly grateful that this has become routine, even though he is not sure how Childermass always knows when it is over. It is very comforting, to have a hot cup in hand when he is coming down from the intensity of the experience.

"Come, sir," says Childermass, and his voice is quiet and low and clearly calculated not to upset Norrell's sensibilities. "It would be best for you to go straight to bed."

Norrell nods. Childermass moves to help Norrell undress, and his hands are gentle. He takes Norrell's coat, and the sliding touch of cloth over his arms makes Norrell shiver, but it is over soon. His fingers are still too unsteady to undo his cravat. Childermass's hands against his throat as he helps him with it should alarm him, but they are soothing. There is a slow tenderness to it that makes him feel - he does not know. Safe, perhaps. In the way that a warm house does after coming in from a rainstorm.

Mechanically he responds to Childermass's nudges - turning this way and sitting down and holding his arms out - until he is ready for bed. By the time the routine is done, he feels calmer.

"Do we need to do anything about your relatives?" says Childermass.

"I do not believe so," says Norrell. His hands have almost stopped shaking. "I do not believe any of them noticed. None passed any remarks."

Childermass nods. "Good," he says.

"Where was the book?" says Norrell.

"In your trunk. One of the maids wanted to come in and do your cleaning, so I took it and put it away. I know you do not like people to see them."

"Oh," says Norrell. He thinks he would normally be cross about that, but he is too tired.

"Do you require any thing more of me, sir?"

"No," says Norrell, and Childermass bows. For a moment he looks as if he wants to say something, or do something, but Norrell is far too scattered to put the effort into puzzling out what it might be. Childermass goes out with the urge apparently unexecuted, so he supposes it does not matter.

Norrell is asleep soon after. They do not speak of the incident in the morning.

 

July 1792

 

Childermass is doing the household accounts. Technically, this should not be his job. But the housekeeper resigned six weeks ago. Norrell had given him permission to hire another, but he has been having difficulty finding anyone. He is considering hiring a housemaid instead, and taking over some of the managerial aspects himself, permanently. It is not as though he needs more to do, but it might be easier in the end.

It is very late at night. Norrell has got it into his head to stay up studying, which he does sometimes. Childermass could go to bed, but he will only spend it wondering if Norrell ever got to bed and if he will be cranky in the morning. In any case, Childermass has enough work to fill the time with. A night spent catching up would not be amiss.

So they are sitting there in peaceful silence, Childermass calculating carefully and making tiny loose absentminded sketches in the margins of his scrap paper. The current one is turning out to be Norrell's hands. Again. He has been drawing them frequently lately, which is a bit confusing. He supposes it must be something to do with seeing Norrell more than anyone else. The urge to capture something with perfect realism. Or perhaps it is because, by now, he looks at them very frequently to ascertain Norrell's mood.

A tiny sound breaks into his composure. He looks up, around, and then at Norrell.

...whose shoulders are shaking. Childermass frowns. He looks nothing like he does when he is crying - one hand is covering his mouth, but his eyes are facing down and scrunched up at the corners instead of squeezed shut. Another small sound escapes Norrell and Childermass realizes with a shock that he is laughing.

It is nearly silent and breathy as if he has not had cause to use his lungs this way often. Childermass blinks. He has never, in three years, seen Norrell laugh before.

He has a strong urge to draw the picture in front of him, to draw this strange new openness, pin it to the page like a butterfly before it disappears. There is something in the lines of Norrell's eyes that loosens in laughter, making him look younger, less pinched. Childermass wants to reach out and straighten his shoulders, look him full in the face, so that he can explore what it is.

He shakes his head quickly. It is ridiculous. In any case, Norrell is even now regaining his composure, dropping his hand, taking a deep breath.

"What was so funny?" asks Childermass.

Norrell glances up at him and winces, as if he had forgotten Childermass was there. "It is nothing," he says.

"It did not sound like nothing."

"It was nothing that should have been humorous." Norrell turns away and begins reading his book again.

When he does, a small smile appears on his face. He squishes down without complete success, and it strains the corners of his mouth.

"Come on, then," says Childermass, getting up from his desk. "You cannot hide it. I could use a good laugh."

"No," Norrell protests, hiding the book behind himself, but since he does not have a bookmark and clearly does not want to lose his place, this merely enables Childermass to see it more clearly. He strides over to the chair and peers at it. He gets a hint of the words 'Cumbria' and 'hunting' and 'William' before Norrell realizes his mistake, squeaks angrily, and whooshes the book face-down on the table.

It is a tale of the Raven King. It is, Childermass realizes, the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner. The story has come up in one of Norrell's books. Norrell, who flinches when you say the name _John Uskglass_ , is reading the Tale of the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner and laughing at it.

How very strange the world is.

"That has always been one of my favorites," says Childermass.

"I told you that I should not have found it funny," says Norrell. "It is the hour."

"But it is a funny story."

"It is almost certainly apocryphal."

"That does not lessen the humor. I know some other stories of him," says Childermass. "If you want to laugh." He finds the words softening at the edges, less sarcastic than he intended them. He shakes himself internally.

"I do not," says Norrell sharply. "It was a momentary slip of composure, nothing more, occasioned by a late night and an overindulgence in wine at dinner."

"You did not drink wine at dinner. You generally do not when you dine at home alone. You have told me it interferes with your digestion."

Norrell's lips press together. "Never mind that," he says irritably. "Must you ask questions about everything?"

"I have not asked any questions," says Childermass patiently. "I have only made statements."

"Leave me in peace, Childermass!" says Norrell. He returns to his book, but the smile creeps back onto his face again, and Childermass finds himself unable not to echo it - perhaps he himself is a little bit drunk, on the hour and the dizzying array of numbers and on the unexpected new knowledge he has gained. He snorts and Norrell looks up. Their eyes meet.

Childermass says, without entirely planning the words out, "I thought you hated him."

The smile disappears. Norrell's face instantly shuts down, his eyebrows drawing together. He says, "I do not know what you are talking about."

Childermass wants to follow the topic to its logical end, but he can practically see briars growing out of Norrell at an allusion to his feelings on the Raven King, and so he does not.

He files it away, though, for the future. For a day when Norrell will trust him enough to tell him.

And he files away the look of Norrell's laughter, of those tiny soft lines at the corners of his eyes. To draw, next time he is in need of some subject.

For practice, he tells himself. Practice only.

He cannot quite make himself believe this.

 

November 1792

 

In November Norrell takes it into his head to go to a book sale in Ugthorpe, instead of sending Childermass by himself.

"There will be a great deal of Greek," he says. "Your Greek is not quite good enough yet. I shall need to inspect them myself."

It does not worry Childermass. So they set off the day before the sale, Norrell wrapped in an absurd number of garments against the growing winter chill.

The ride there he follows his usual practice of dismounting every few hours, so as to make it easier on his legs, which means he has to ride faster to catch up.

This seems to vex Norrell. The third time he stops and catches up, Norrell pokes his head out the window of the coach and says, "Get inside. I am tired of you lagging behind."

Childermass raises his eyebrows. Servants are not supposed to ride with gentlemen, not on journeys like this. But he is not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shrugs, and dismounts.

Norrell taps for the carriage to stop, and Childermass sees to the horse. He climbs inside and sits across from Norrell.

"It will be easier for you to ride inside, I take it," says Norrell.

Childermass nods.

"In the future if we are traveling together, I would request that you would ride inside," Norrell says. "It makes me dizzy to see you so continuously inconsistent in your pace."

Childermass bows his head. Even now he cannot tell if Norrell is genuinely bothered by this, or if he wishes to make things easier for Childermass but does not want to be found out. He supposes it does not matter. The end result is the same.

Things proceed smoothly until they reach the junction to turn towards Whitby or Ugthorpe.

When they stop off at the coaching inn to change horses, Childermass overhears two men talking about bandits on the road ahead.

He stops and talks to them, and checks his cards.

Yes, he does not think it is safe. Not with night coming on.

Childermass goes to speak to Norrell, who is already in the coach, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits to begin.

"We cannot move ahead," he says. "Not yet. I have an uneasy feeling about the road."

"Bother feelings," says Norrell.

"I asked around," Childermass says. "There are unpleasant characters up ahead, I tell you. We will not be safe."

"But we have to get to the sale on time!" protests Norrell.

"We have to go on living with our throats uncut, is what we have to do," says Childermass. "We are not going down that road. We are going to stay here."

Norrell presses his mouth into a thin line. "You are sacked," he says.

"No," says Childermass wearily.

"You cannot refuse a dismissal."

"I believe I am doing so at this very moment, sir," says Childermass. "You cannot sack me now. I have to get you home first. Without me, you will be alone on the road save for James. He's a good fellow, but there is only so much he can do. You can sack me when we get back to Hurtfew and you're safe."

"I shall," says Norrell. "I can promise you that." He sulks back against the cushions and does not look at Childermass.

Childermas sighs. He is far too concerned about their safety to spare any worry for Norrell's little moods.

Back inside, things continue to conspire against any possible cheer. There is only one room available for the night. Childermass sighs to himself again, thinking of how Norrell will complain about this, and then takes the key.

The stairs up to the room are very steep. He closes his eyes for a moment, the barest expression of his irritation. As long as this day has been, and as much riding as he has done - even spending half the day in the coach - he does not think he can manage them.

Norrell is standing at their base, waiting impatiently for him to come and show him where their room is. Childermass looks at him. On the one hand, they have just had an argument. On the other hand, Norrell did say whatever you need to do to keep yourself in good working condition -

He makes a decision, and approaches the stairs. "We're up on the first floor," he says. "Come, sir."

As Norrell begins to ascend, Childermass reaches out one hand and lays it on his shoulder for balance and support. Norrell stiffens, but does not move away.

They make the whole journey up the stairs like that, Childermass leaning on Norrell and Norrell allowing it, until they reach their room. Then Childermass lets go.

Childermass assumes Norrell will make a fuss about the single bed. He generally does about everything else. But he just looks at it and says, "I suspect very strongly that there are fleas."

"I'm afraid so," says Childermass. "They are endemic to inns, in my experience. Particularly inns that are the only option on a road."

"If we had gone on to Ugthorpe," Norrell begins.

"We would possibly be dead." Childermass takes his coat off. "I recommend sleeping in your shirt and breeches. A nightshirt might not be wise."

Norrell eyes the bed dubiously as he removes his cloak.

They undress and settle down to bed quickly. It has been a very long day. Childermass waits for Norrell to complain about his proximity, but he does not.

He does take most of the covers, pulling them over himself as he curls up into a sort of nest. Childermass is too tired to protest this. He has slept through far worse than a blanket-stealing bedmate.

Presently, Norrell says, "I can feel fleas biting me, Childermass."

"I know, sir."

"This is intolerable."

"As you say, sir." Childermass is beginning to drift off already, fleas or no fleas.

"I will complain to the innkeeper," says Norrell. "I shall not be able to sleep a wink. The quality of the mattress is dreadful."

"Just try to ignore it," mumbles Childermass into his pillow.

There is a pause. "I am still upset about the book sale," says Norrell. "You have acted most impertinently. I do not believe we will get there in time."

"If we could save this discussion for the morning," says Childermass, closing his eyes.

Norrell is silent for a while. Then he mutters something like " - intolerable level of hygiene - " and curls up deeper into his blankets.

Childermass does not hear any more. Shortly after he falls asleep.

He awakens around what he judges to be two or three in the morning. This is not unusual; he is a poor sleeper.

Norrell, despite his complaints, is asleep himself. Childermass looks over at him. The covers have been pushed down from his chin to his shoulder. Childermass contemplates stealing some of them back so that they are equally distributed, but decides it is not worth the fuss if Norrell wakes up.

In the silence of the early morning it hits Childermass that he is sleeping beside his employer. He had been far too tired to pay attention before, but now he is gravely aware of the weight of it. It has been a long time since Childermass last shared a bed, and he does not quite know what to do with the information that it is Norrell who is beside him. For all they have been through, this is - different. Closer. Incongruous, somehow.

He snores a little. Childermass has no doubt that if he mentions this tomorrow, Norrell will deny it, and probably accuse _him_  of snoring.

Childermass turns over onto his side and looks at Norrell in front of him, curled up small with his back to Childermass, one thin strip of skin visible between his cropped hair and the collar of his shirt. Norrell has just spent the entire preceding evening being terribly petulant with Childermass, and therefore Childermass should not be quite so moved by the sight. By how very vulnerable that strip of skin looks.

He reaches out his hand almost without realizing it. Then he stops and lets the hand fall back down, cursing himself for that momentary slip of self-control, although there is no one to have seen it.

 _Means to an end_ , he thinks, as he watches Norrell's breathe slowly and evenly in his sleep. _I am here for the magic and the books, remember._

Childermass realizes with a twist that he does not believe that any more. He does not remember when it stopped being true.

He thinks about Norrell's hands, his small pale eyes, his thin sour mouth. He thinks about the way his shoulders shake when he laughs or when he cries or when he has a fit, and about how that makes Childermass want to reach out and steady him. He thinks about holding on to Norrell's arm for balance, and how he said nothing, only let him.

Childermass blows out his breath and realizes this situation has got quite out of control.

In the morning, he is vindicated, in at least one respect.

"Lucky to be away with your skins," says the innkeeper when they come down for breakfast the next day and he asks of their plans. "A couple of folks murdered on that road, I heard. Last night there was some sort of incident, too."

Childermass shoots Norrell a pointed look, which he ignores.

Back at Hurtfew - unsuccessful and empty-handed - Childermass asks, "Well? Are you going to sack me?" Right at this very moment, he is so weary and travel-sore that he does not care.

Norrell looks at him and sighs. "No," he says. "I am not. I need your help. We are going to get those books back, Childermass, if it takes us an eternity. I will not let that man keep them."

It's not very much, but Childermass thinks _we_  might be a mark of trust, after all.

He tries to put his revelation at the coaching inn out of his mind. It is impractical - an entirely useless encumbrance.

How very unfortunate that self-deception has never been one of his strong points.

 

 


	5. 1793

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early again (though it's just past midnight UK time so by the Society's clock I'm all right). This is the longest chapter (something like over twice as long as the shortest one, actually) so perhaps it's better that way.
> 
> Oh! Right. Parts of this chapter are from Scopus. I swear I'm not just doing that to rip myself off - I wanted to fit that event into the continuity of this story bc it's part of the Fabric of my Headcanons. I have a terrible need to make everything fit together. Anyway, I'm leaving Scopus up, but you might notice similarities at points.
> 
> Also I am sorry if this chapter causes you pain. I promise it will get better later.

April 1793

In April the mail is once again a source of disappointment and disruption to Norrell's household.

Norrell frowns stormily at the letter in his hand. It is most exceedingly disagreeable.

"What are you glaring about?" asks Childermass, coming up behind him to lean on his chair.

"Read this," says Norrell, handing the letter up to Childermass, who looks it over and then snorts.

"It is not funny," says Norrell, correctly interpreting the sound as one of suppressed laughter.

"No. Of course not. Not at all."

"I do not see what there is to laugh at."

"Nothing whatsoever," says Childermass, handing the letter back and leaning against the desk so that he can look down at Norrell. "So. Distant relatives?"

"They expect me to house them!" says Norrell, in disgust. "Merely because we spoke to one another at the funeral dinner."

"I believe one is considered to have an obligation to one's relatives," says Childermass, smirking all up the side of his face. Norrell glares at him.

"Come, sir," says Childermass. "It will only be for one night, and then they will be gone again on their journey. Surely you can endure that."

"I see no reason why I should."

"To avoid rumors and hostility," says Childermass. "It is one thing to avoid your family; it is another thing to actively reject them."

Norrell makes a face. "But I do not want to."

"I know that, sir," says Childermass, rolling his eyes. "But be guided by me. It would be best for you to allow it. They are unlikely to come back here - it is too remote."

And so, of course, they come. It is beginning to occur to Norrell that Childermass is astonishingly good at getting his way, at least when it comes to matters such as these.

Mrs Suggitt, the one to whom he believes he is in fact related, is an inoffensive woman. That is to say, she does not try to touch him, does not seem much interested in holding conversation with him, and, in general, keeps to herself. He has the impression that she finds him terribly dull and is therefore unlikely to speak to him. He has no quarrel with this, since it means he does not have to speak to her in return.

Her husband, on the other hand, is a thoroughly different character. He is tall, which always intimidates Norrell, and vastly bearded, which is even worse. He storms and booms and makes all sorts of loud noises. He does not seem to be particularly hostile, but he is rather overwhelming. He also has a very pronounced Southern accent, unlike his wife.

Norrell, who was set on disliking this visit intensely anyway, is delighted to see that he has a number of perfectly good reasons to do so.

He tells Lucy to show the Suggitts to their room and leaves them to their own devices until dinner, taking refuge in his library.

Unfortunately, he cannot skip dinner, because he has been far too upset to eat waiting for the guests to arrive, so now he is very hungry.

"Come into the dining room with me," says Norrell to Childermass. "I cannot face them alone."

Childermass puts a hand over his mouth, which means he is smirking behind it. "It would not be standard practice to have your man of business in the room while you eat," he says.

"I do not care. I have made enough sacrifices letting these people into my home. I shall not make any more. Bring some business, if you must."

"Very well," says Childermass.

They arrive first, so Childermass is in place when the Suggitts come down. Standing would, Norrell knows, be more conventional, but when Childermass stands for too long without leaning he wobbles most alarmingly, and it makes Norrell dizzy to watch him. This is not conducive to eating. And it would do no good for Childermass to lean in the corner. He would be much too far away to rescue Norrell, should he run aground in the conversational shoals.

So, Childermass is sitting in a chair beside Norrell, with some papers in his lap. He is very quiet and unobtrusive by nature, and in this state even more, so the Suggitts ought to hardly notice him. He took his dinner before the appointed hour, so he is not even eating.

Mrs Suggitt gives Childermass a look of mild interest and then turns her attention to the food. She says, "You keep a very good table, Mr Norrell."

"Thank you," says Norrell uncertainly. He has nothing to do with the serving of the dinner or the planning of the menu - that is the job of the cook and the housekeeper. He makes it a point to stay out of domestic matters. That is the reason he has servants. But some sort of response seems to be expected of him.

He glances at Childermass, who is smirking behind his hand. Already.

Suggitt himself does not let the thing pass so easily. He says, "You certainly organize your household affairs most unusually, Mr Norrell."

"I am not sure what you mean," says Norrell.

"I have never yet heard of a servant eating at table with his master."

"He is not eating," says Norrell. "He is doing business. I am a very busy man. I have many affairs which require my attention."

This draws a very tiny snort from Childermass, which Norrell thinks is inaudible to any one else. He mutters, "I do not see what is so amusing."

"You have many affairs which require _my attention_ ," says Childermass, eyes on his book and mouth hardly moving. "You shove them all off as soon as you can."

Norrell opens his mouth to point out that in fact he has a great many magical questions to answer which Childermass cannot, but Suggitt interrupts him. "Still most unusual, sir. Most unusual indeed." He stops to address Childermass. "What is your function in this house, man?"

Childermass looks up from his books. He says, "I am Mr Norrell's man of business, sir."

Something about this seems to annoy Suggitt, which Norrell thinks is unreasonable, since it had been a perfectly respectable answer. But he eats in silence, glancing occasionally at Childermass with an expression of great discontent.

As long as he is not making a fuss, Norrell does not care. He carries on with his own dinner in peace.

At last, when the second remove has been served, Suggitt says, "I suppose you do not dabble very much in international business, Mr Norrell."

"I am afraid not," says Norrell.

"I was just wondering whether you thought the silver trade to China might go up. It looks to."

"That is quite mistaken," says Childermass, looking up from his books. "It is very likely to decrease in the coming years. There is a mission to ensure less British silver enters China, I hear."

Suggitt's eyes narrow. He says, "I do not like your manner, man of business. There is insolence in it."

Beside him, Mrs Suggitt sighs loudly. He seems to ignore her.

"I am sorry to hear that, sir," says Childermass. He does not, even to Norrell, sound particularly sorry. He does not look down, but goes on gazing unconcernedly into the man's eyes.

"In the future perhaps you should be silent while your betters are speaking," says Suggitt.

Norrell can _see_  the way Childermass tenses at this. His hands in his lap curl into fists and the muscles in his jaw tighten. It is most alarming. Norrell says quickly, "I rely on Childermass's advice a good deal and he has standing orders to speak when he feels appropriate."

Suggitt raises his fiercely bristling eyebrows. "You do not find his manner disrespectful to a guest?"

"I live here quite alone save for my servants," says Norrell, drawing himself up in his chair. "Perhaps my arrangements are unusual. However, Childermass has never offered me less than satisfactory service. I would thank you to respect my wishes in my house."

"I see," says Suggitt. "Well. If that is your attitude, I will mind it." He glares sideways at Childermass. The fact that Norrell catches it suggests it was meant to be seen. "If you will excuse me, I find that I have lost my appetite, and I shall retire."

He rises, and exits the room.

Mrs Suggitt remains and finishes her dinner in near-silence with the appearance of perfect equanimity. At the end she says, "Don't mind him. He has a temper."

"I see," says Norrell, somewhat confused.

Mrs Suggitt stands up and nods. Then she goes too.

When Norrell is alone with Childermass, Childermass says, "That was not well done."

"What? With Mrs Suggitt?"

"No, with the gentleman." Childermass leans his elbow on the table. "He will be upset with you now. He may spread tales."

"I do not care," says Norrell petulantly. "He has no right to come in here and give you orders. You are _my_ servant."

"And only you are allowed to order me?" says Childermass.

Norrell shrugs. "I can hardly be expected to hear your opinion on important matters if he keeps being so disruptive. It is most inconvenient."

Childermass looks at him with a most peculiar expression. "I had no idea my opinion was so valuable to you."

"Of course it is valuable to me," says Norrell irritably. "I have been employing you for nearly four years. I would not have kept you with me for so long if I did not think you were of some use."

Childermass raises one eyebrow. "I see," he says. His eyes are heavy and dark on Norrell and Norrell shifts uncomfortably.

"Anyway," he says, "he had no right to speak to you in such a way. You are my servant, not his, and he is in my home. It was most terribly discourteous to me."

"Was it," Childermass says.

Norrell wants to look away - he is finding the experience of Childermass's eyes rather intense - but he cannot seem to. He swallows. "It is not a matter of any thing else," he says. "My regard for you aside, he cannot be allowed to continue going around and behaving so badly."

"You have regard for me, do you?" says Childermass. His voice is low and quiet and something that is not quite amused. Norrell thinks it might be - fond? He is certain that must be a misinterpretation. It must. All the same it tingles down Norrell's fingers and makes him want to shake his hands.

"I told you that I value your opinion," he says, wrenching his eyes away at last. "I do not see why you should require further confirmation."

"No," says Childermass, mouth twisting up at the corner, "You do not."

Norrell cannot interpret this, so he ignores it. "I am going to bed," he says. "The encounter has upset me greatly. Come and help me undress."

Childermass bows his shallow bow in assent, and accompanies Mr Norrell to his room.

 

Sepember 1793 

 

The leaves are beginning to turn when Childermass receives a most unusual order from Mr Norrell.

He has just returned from a mission to break up a budding society of magic which Norrell sees as a threat. Childermass is not entirely sure what is so very threatening about them, but his is not to question why. He is growing very good at intimidation, he thinks.

When he returns, Dido pops her head in on him. "Him upstairs wants to see you," she says. "He has been waiting all day for you to get back."

Childermass sighs and trudges down to the library. When he arrives, he drops into the nearest chair before even looking at Norrell.

Norrell looks up. "There you are," he says. "You have been out a very long time."

"I was seeing to the Sheffield Society," says Childermass. "Just as you ordered."

"Yes, yes. Did you break them up?"

Childermass stretches, wincing at the tightness in his shoulders. "Of course I did," he says. "They will not trouble you again, sir."

"Good," says Norrell. "Could any of them do magic? They could not, could they?" He rubs his thumbs against the tips of his fingers, which Childermass knows means he is getting anxious but that it is soon enough to head it off.

"Not as far as I could see," he replies. "I don't think you need to worry about that. You are, as ever, the only practical magician currently in England."

Norrell sighs in relief and sits down. "I had something which might aid you in that area," he says. "That is why I called you here."

"Yes? What?"

"I have a spell to teach you."

Childermass blinks. Has he misheard?

"A spell," he says.

"Yes."

This is highly suspicious. Childermass has been waiting to learn a spell since he came here, and it seems wholly remarkable that he should have his wish granted at last. He says, cautiously, "What kind of spell?"

"It is one of revelation." Norrell gets up from his chair and goes over to an end table nearby. "You see," he says, "If you have to deal with any more people who claim to be magicians, you will know for certain if they can or are doing magic. It will make you much more useful to me."

"You have not taught me any spells to make me more useful to you before," says Childermass.

"This is a special case. It is of the utmost importance that you be able to tell definitively if someone is doing magic. I thought of it while you were gone on your errand."

Childermass shrugs. He may as well stop fighting it. "Very well, sir," he says. "What shall I do?"

"Well - " Norrell picks up his spectacles and puts them on. He leafs through the book, muttering a little to himself, until he comes to the page. "Ah," he says in satisfaction. "The Scopus."

"Scopus?"

"I would have thought you would know enough Latin to deduce the basic meaning."

In fact Childermass does, but hiding his knowledge is a habit he still has not shaken. "Something to do with seeing," he says. "You said a spell of revelation. Seeing magic?"

"Quite. Magic being done in the presence of the caster."

"And you wish me to learn this spell in case any of the people I chase out for you can, in fact, do magic," says Childermass.

Norrell looks away. "There are no other practical magicians in England, you told me so yourself."

"But you fear competition. I know you do."

"It is only that this way you can prove for certain that any one claiming to be one is an imposter," says Norrell. He fidgets with the fabric of his dressing gown, twisting it between his fingers.

Childermass does not chase the point. Instead he says, "Very well. What is required for the spell?"

"You will need a glass of clean water."

"So it is a bit like your vision spell."

"No," says Norrell immediately. Then he pauses, and purses his lips. "That is to say, the water is a facilitator. Magic makes much use of the power of clear water as a clarifying and seeing element. In that respect I suppose you are correct. But you will not be able to see visions just because you have mastered the Scopus."

"I never said I would," says Childermass with heavy patience.

"No. No. You did not." Norrell looks at his book. "You must make sure the water is from a spring if you can," he says. "As fresh as possible, and preferably from a running source. The fresher and more fast-running the water, the more potent the spell."

"You have told me this before, sir," says Childermass.

Norrell glares at him for the interruption. "One must lay the foundations, Childermass," he says.

"Whatever you say, sir," says Childermass, hiding a smirk. He really should not find this habit as endearing as he does; if someone had told him when he came here that in four years he would be on any level enjoying Norrell's lectures, he would have laughed in their face. There are some things even the cards cannot call.

Or perhaps they had, and he had simply not listened.

Norrell continues, "Once you have the water you must - there is an incantation that must be recited."

"Yes? And what is it?"

"It is - " Here Norrell stops and gazes at Childermass for some time.

"Yes?" says Childermass.

Norrell looks away and mutters something indistinct.

Childermass sighs. Norrell's expression is familiar. "You called me into the room after I've spent the day riding to teach me a spell, and now you are too afraid to tell me what it is," he says.

Norrell ventures another inaudible remark.

"Mr Norrell," says Childermass, "I have been in your employment for four years now - " to the month, he realizes, which is an odd feeling - "And have I ever, in that time, done anything to harm you? Have I ever even disobeyed your wishes except to protect both of us?"

Norrell's mumbling sounds as though it might contain the phrase 'unclear circumstances'.

"Is this about the incident in Ugthorpe? I was right about the cut-throats. You know I was." Childermass folds his arms.

"But we missed the booksale!" says Norrell, agitated into speaking within the range of the average human ear at last. "The Duke got there first and bought all the books up!"

"Worth dying for, were they?" says Childermass. But this is an old argument now. In any case, he does not think it is the heart of the matter. He says, "Why do you have me in your household, doing your business, if you do not trust me?"

Norrell looks up at him at last. Their eyes meet and linger; then Norrell looks down. He nods and puts the book on the table, running his finger down the page.

Childermass sighs silently at himself. Perhaps it is absurd, staying with Norrell when he does things like this.

But Childermass cannot forget the incident with the Suggitts, how Norrell listens to him and lets him take liberties that no other master has. And although he does not speak of it, Childermass suspects Norrell cannot do without him. Being needed and - beyond that - _respected_ is an old, old weakness no-one has touched in a long time.

"Very well," Norrell says. "Here is the incantation. It is very simple - you only need recite it while holding the glass of water in the air." Norrell gestures at the water and wine glass. "Now, first read the spell through and see that you have all your ingredients."

"I have," says Childermass, "You got them ready before."

"That is not the point," says Norrell, adjusting his spectacles in a way that Childermass knows indicates a lecture. "If you were doing any other spell, the consequences of even one missed ingredient could be catastrophic. Substitute sea-water for river-water in Penstemon’s rain-making spell and you could have a flood that might cover an entire countryside! And even in this case, if one does not make sure of oneself before one begins, one might have to disrupt the magic, with all sorts of unpleasant side effects for the caster. Really, Childermass, I cannot believe - "

"Yes, sir," says Childermass, rolling his eyes. "I will read through the spell and see that I have all my ingredients."

"Good. Now, next, you read the instructions, and be sure of the incantation and your effects before you begin. Do not read the incantation out loud. It is wisest not to even say it under the breath. You should review it mentally only."

"I have it, sir."

Norrell nods. "Now you may begin."

Childermass takes a breath to calm his excitement. He picks up the glass, closes his eyes, and recites the incantation. He concentrates all his mental power on it, on the coldness of it in his hands, on the water lapping at its sides. He wills it to show him any magic being done.

Nothing happens. After a moment, he opens his eyes and glares at the glass.

"Hmmm," says Norrell. "Did you visualize?"

"Yes," says Childermass, "Of course I did. What do you think I had my eyes closed for?"

"What were you focusing on?"

"The glass. I was trying to convince it to show me the magic." He is well aware even as he says it that this sounds thoroughly absurd, but Norrell does not make a face. Instead, he says, "Try focusing on magic itself. Use the glass as a channel. Call out to any magic in the area. Strain your ears for it, strain all your senses." Norrell waves a hand out the window.

Childermass nods. In its own way, this feels just as intimate as sharing a bed with Norrell. He knows that Norrell recoils in horror at the thought of teaching anyone else magic, but here he is, instructing Childermass on the execution of a spell.

Weighed down by the sense of closeness, he shuts his eyes and says the spell again. He concentrates on magic this time, reaching out for the tingling across his skin he always feels when it is around. He reaches for the crackly paper and gentle rain of Norrell's magic, on the tension of being at the eye of a storm, on the warm glow of a fireside after a long day outdoors.

Something happens then, something like a whooshing of wind and coarse wool against his fingertips, something like smoke in his eyes and moonlight on stone. It feels entirely different from Norrell's - wilder and rougher - and it spreads over him like lightning and is gone. He gasps and opens his eyes.

Norrell is smiling and clasping his hands with delight, something Childermass sees infrequently and wishes he did not enjoy so much. "It worked!" he says.

Childermass looks at the wine glass in his hand. "I cannot see anything different," he says doubtfully.

"Oh, you will not be able to see it," says Mr Norrell. "It is not likely to be visible under the circumstances. After all, no magic is being cast except for yours. If it had been visible I should have thought something might have gone wrong."

"If you cannot see it, how do you know that it worked?"

"Didn't you feel it take?"

So he had not imagined it. He has done magic. Did that feeling, that sense of power, happen every time? Childermass clears his throat. "I did," he says.

Norrell is looking at him again. Childermass does not drop his gaze; he feels elated with the sense of having conquered some great barrier. His blood rushes and he feels unconquerable.

He could kiss Norrell just now. He wants to, he realizes. There is a raw desire for closeness in him now, a sense of openness he is very wary of and yet wants to embrace. It is foolish. It is very foolish. No, more than that, it is dangerous. Nothing good can possibly come of it.

But Norrell saves him from himself in any case. He clears his throat and steps back and says, "You have acquitted yourself very well. Take the rest of the evening, if you like. I shall not need anything more."

Childermass shakes himself mentally and straightens up. "Yes, sir," he says. "I will be by to help you with your nightclothes on at the usual time."

"Yes," says Norrell. "Yes. Indeed."

 

 December 1793

 

Childermass's intention is to go on ignoring his unfortunate urge until hell freezes over. And indeed, he spends much of the fall and winter doing just that. He resolutely ignores how soft and open Norrell looks in his nightshirt just before he goes to bed, how at peace he looks in the library reading, how very close their faces have to be when Childermass does up his buttons or shaves him or fixes his neckcloth. He tries to stop drawing Norrell's hands. He tries to stop looking at his mouth.

Mostly, he is successful. However, it comes at a bit of a cost. He knows there is a change in his manner - all the little intimacies he and Norrell have developed fall a little by the wayside. He finds himself withdrawing into servant in a way he has not done since he came here.

There is confusion in Norrell over that. He can feel it, and he tries not to let it dissuade him. It is safer this way, for both of them, and Norrell would be upset if he knew. Better a little confusion and, perhaps, hurt now then an irrevocable change later.

It is Boxing Day that does him in. The sentimentality of this annoys him immensely. But, well - the rest of the servants have the day, and have gone home, being locals. Childermass has no home to go to, and so he has decided to stay. Technically, he is not on duty, but the library is the warmest room in the house right now and if he wants to read he can. Norrell has been choosing to ignore it lately if he picks up a book, provided it is one of the less-important ones.

Some that Norrell considers magically valueless are quite absorbing, so he is sitting in front of the fire with his shoes kicked off and his legs curled under him, reading about a duel between a nameless Argentine magician and a fairy. Norrell has left a neat bookmark wedged in the spine. Written on it in his tiny handwriting is _probably apocryphal_ , and later down, _useless nonsense_.

Childermass snorts when he comes to that.

Norrell himself comes to the fire and frowns down at Childermass a few minutes later. "It is very cold," he says.

"It is," agrees Childermass.

"You are sitting in my chair in front of the fire."

"There are a large number of other chairs in the library."

Norrell's frown deepens. He gives Childermass a very stern look and drags another chair over to the fire. He puts it very, very near to Childermass's.

Childermass raises his eyebrows.

"You are in the most advantageous position with respect to heat," says Norrell. "If you will not move, you will have to deal with me sitting so close to you."

Childermass smirks at that. But he simply shrugs and goes back to his book. Norrell hmphs under his breath and sits down.

After a moment Childermass sneaks a glance sideways at him. He is reading his book with an expression of contentment. Childermass feels a little twist. He is intolerably, inadvisably compromised.

The house is so very still. It is always still, here in the library, but Childermass is exceptionally aware of the emptiness of the rooms outside. He can hear their breathing, he fancies he can hear the snow falling outside.

Norrell looks up, and Childermass realizes that when they are turned toward each other, their faces are far nearer than they ought to be. He ought to move away, but some part of him, some small and daring instinct, is curious to see what will happen.

"Childermass," Norrell says, "You are too close."

"You put your chair here," says Childermass. "If you do not care for the consequences..." But he finds himself unable to finish the sentence. Their eyes meet and then Norrell's flick down to Childermass's mouth to linger there, then back to his eyes, then away. Childermass's breath catches.

It had not occurred to him - he had not even thought to hope - that Norrell might be feeling much as he is. But he knows Norrell well by now, and he is fairly certain he knows what that lingering glance means.

He does something very reckless then.

He leans forwards a bare few inches towards Norrell's mouth.

And there must be something strange about the day, because Norrell moves too. Their lips meet, so softly and gently, and Childermass tilts his head and closes his eyes -

"No," says Norrell breaking away. "No - " His voice sounds wild. Childermass can see his breath coming fast, the high colour on his cheeks, and this would be welcome were it not for the panic in his rapidly-blinking eyes.

Childermass leans back and says "Sir?"

"You must go," says Norrell. His voice is trembling. "Leave me. Go to your room or wherever it is you - get out."

It feels as though the bottom has dropped out of the world. Childermass hesitates, and then leaves for his own room. His stomach is roiling in confusion and pain and he does not know where the encounter went wrong. Norrell had - Norrell had leaned in. Childermass is certain of this. He does not think he misinterpreted the motion. Did Norrell find him so very -

Childermass cuts off this train of thought, because it is not useful. There are very few useful trains of thoughts he can follow, for if he has misjudged and given offense, there is no reason for Norrell not to dismiss him. No reason at all for him to be allowed to stay here. The inside of his chest twists. If he had just been content with the way things were, he could have stayed -

He sucks in a ragged breath. Bed. It is not yet late enough for bed, but he wants nothing more than insensibility right now. He will deal with this in the morning, whatever repercussions may arise.

But in the end, he finds it very difficult to go to sleep. His thoughts keep chasing themselves around what-ifs. He keeps replaying the moment in his head, trying to determine just where he had made his mistake. He still cannot find it. Norrell had leaned in, at the same time as Childermass, and Childermass had kissed him -

 _There_ , he tells himself, _That was your mistake. You should have left it alone. You should have known this would not end well. You should have been more careful. You should not have acted on your own desires. None of this is important, you know that. Books and magic and a chance to prove yourself, that is what you were here for. And a good winter coat._

It seems so distant, all of it. Childermass has a very serviceable coat. He has some Latin and some Greek, and a whole spell he knows he can do, and half-understood pieces of others that he thinks he could make work. He has good handwriting, and his vocabulary is improved, and if he sought a new situation he is almost certain he would get something decent, at least. In that respect he has certainly proven himself, if only _to_ himself. He has what he came for.

But he does not want to leave.

This place is not a home, he has not had a home since he was twelve years old, but it is the closest he will get. He knows that. Here he has responsibility and respect and a master he can tolerate even, most of the time.

 _You_ can do a great deal more than that, can't you he thinks bitterly. It is weakness, he had known it would only lead to trouble. Once upon a time he had thought he had cut that weakness out of himself. It had been a vast error not to see it done properly.

He falls asleep very late out of sheer exhaustion with his thoughts still circling.

In the morning he wakes early, despite the difficulty in sleeping. He is not sure what to do. Should he leave quietly? The prospect is briefly tempting,but he rejects it. He will not be chased out without a word. If Norrell wants him gone, he will have to do the job himself. No - he will fulfill his duties as normal.

He goes down and presents himself at Norrell's door at his usual time for dressing. Norrell is not even out of bed yet, but he is awake, curled miserably into a pile of blankets and staring at the wall. When he sees Childermass, he visibly digs down deeper into the covers.

"Shall I come back later?" asks Childermass quietly.

"No," says Norrell, a little too fast. For a moment Childermass fears he means to dismiss him there and then, but Norrell adds, "I am ready to dress."

This is not a statement borne out by the physical evidence, but Childermass says nothing. He picks up Norrell's clothes and waits.

They do not speak as he helps him dress. Norrell is in breeches and stockings now, shirtless and waiting for his vest, which Childermass puts on him. He methodically pulls the laces to just tight enough.

Shirt. Waistcoat. Cravat. He ties it with a sense of finality, well aware that this may be the last time he does this, the last time Norrell will look into a mirror and criticise the knot petulantly. He should not miss that.

Coat. Norrell is still unshod, but Childermass cannot quite bring himself to kneel and buckle on his shoes.

He says, "Am I to leave your service?"

Norrell's face tightens. "No," he says. "That is, I do not want you to. I cannot stop you from leaving if that is your desire."

"It is not," says Childermass, "My desire."

"Oh," says Norrell. He sits down on the bed. "I see."

There is silence for a moment.

Childermass says, "Why did you - "

"Do not ask me that," says Norrell in a rush. "Please. I beg of you. Not now. I cannot - " Childermass can see his throat working, can see all the words rushing away from him, the way they do when he is in the grip of some strong emotion. "I cannot," he finishes at last.

Childermass sits down on the bed beside him. Norrell says nothing of this. Side by side they no longer have ready eye contact, and Childermass knows it is easier for Norrell to speak sometimes if you allow him to look away. If he does not feel that he must look you on the eye.

Childermass says, "I did not intend to give offense, sir."

"You did not," says Norrell. His mouth is twisted into a bitter line. "It is not, you understand, that I do not wish - but no one has ever - " He turns away from Childermass and twists his fingers in the blanket.

This should not surprize Childermass - in all the years he has known Norrell, he has never shown the slightest inclination towards courtship. And it does not, really, but he had not considered -

"There is so much," Norrell continues. "The experience is one of considerable intensity. There is so much weight of - " He shakes his head.

"You do not enjoy it?" asks Childermass softly.

"It is not a matter of what I enjoy."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "In that respect I must disagree," he says. "The act of kissing is based on mutual enjoyment. If one party does not find it so, there is no point."

Norrell flinches at the word _kissing_. "It is not," he repeats more pointedly, "A matter of what I enjoy. It is a question of what I can accept without becoming overwhelmed."

"Is it so difficult?" says Childermass. "The bodily contact?"

"It is not just about that," says Norrell. "It is about what it means. And what it - leads to."

Childermass blinks. If he had known this was Norrell's concern - "As for the latter," he says, "You need not trouble yourself about that. It will not lead anywhere you do not wish it to go."

Norrell stops twisting the blankets. "But that is what men of our sort do," he says.

"Only if they want to."

"And you do not want to?" Norrell's shoulders are relaxing from their tight hunch.

"Quite frankly, sir, I can take or leave the entire business as suits me and the person I am with. I do not find it important in the slightest." Childermass shrugs.

Norrell says, "I find the entire idea - " His face twists into an expression of disgust. "It is so very undignified, and for so little reward."

"That is a point of view," says Childermass. "A very valid one."

Norrell looks at Childermass, but does not say anything. Childermass slides off the bed. Norrell's shoes are neatly beside the dresser. He sits beside the bed with them and grasps Norrell's ankle gently, wrapping his fingers around it, sliding the foot into the shoe and then buckling it. Then the other one.

He rises, one hand against the bed for leverage and balance. Then he holds out a hand to Norrell, who takes it uncertainly and rises.

Childermass does not step back, so that when Norrell is on his feet, they are face-to-face. As close as they had been last night. He says, so quietly it is almost a breath, "Is there anything else you require of me, sir?"

Norrell has not let go of his hand. "I cannot," he says, very near to Childermass's mouth. He turns his head away. "Not yet. Give me time."

Childermass nods minutely, and kisses Norrell's cheek instead. He lets it linger a little, a gesture full of patience and promise. Norrell's breath comes in a rush.

"And now you are dressed," Childermass says. "So I shall go about my other duties."

Not yet, Norrell had said. Which means a later.

This is not the end.


	6. 1794

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late, I am sorry! It's still Friday here though. I had a late evening I should have expected but had forgotten about. Anyway, I hope this mends any broken hearts. This is the chapter which justifies the T rating. I literally blushed while writing it. I am too tiny and ace. Anyway.

January-May 1794

 

It begins with little touches. Once, Childermass is sitting in the library doing his letters. Norrell is nearby making notes about some book he has been reading. And suddenly, he is touching Childermass, without Childermass having been aware it was coming.

It is such a small thing - the edges of their unoccupied hands are resting against each other. The most innocent of possible contact. All the same Childermass feels intensely alive to it, as if his nerves have concentrated on that one hand.

Carefully, without looking, he laces his pinky finger with Norrell's.

They stay like that for nearly half an hour, until Norrell has his tea. Childermass feels little echos of the sensation the rest of the day.

A few days later when dressing Norrell, Childermass has knelt to buckle on his shoes. He glances up and finds Norrell looking at him very thoughtfully.

Norrell reaches down to tuck a strand of Childermass's hair behind his ear. Childermass's breath quickens. There is a tenderness in the gesture - so unexpected from Norrell and so unlike anything Childermass has felt for a very long time. It feels like a tiny chip is being knocked off him.

He stands up, leaning on the bed until he is steady on his feet, and cups Norrell's cheek, brushing a thumb against the cheekbone. Norrell's eyes close, and then he leans a little into Childermass's hand, like a cat.

Childermass brushes the thumb against Norrell's lips, and smiles a little at the soft surprized little sound Norrell makes.

A few mornings later when Norrell removes his nightcap, before he puts on his wig, Childermass reaches back behind him and runs a hand roughly through his hair, scruffing it up. It is an instinctive and almost childish gesture, but the feeling of the short curls against his hand is strangely satisfying. Has he ever had occasion to touch Norrell's hair before? He is not sure he has.

"Why did you do that?" says Norrell, giving him an odd look.

"Because I wanted to," says Childermass. "Did it bother you?"

"No," says Norrell slowly. "The sensation was not unpleasant."

"Well, then," says Childermass, and does it again.

Holding pinkies in the library becomes holding hands. Norrell's is small and warm and he laces his finger with Childermass's, looking away from him all the while, as if his book is of far more interest than what his hand is doing. But Childermass catches him sneaking glances, sometimes, at their interlocked hands.

When Norrell absently rubs a thumb across Childermass's finger, turning it into a circle gesture, Childermass can feel another little piece of something - restraint, perhaps, or resistance - being rubbed off with it.

He grasps Norrell's hand gently and turns it palm up, then traces little patterns into it with his index finger. Norrell gives a tiny gasp, although he does not look up from his book.

Childermass says, "If it is too ticklish…"

"No," says Norrell to his book. "It is not."

So Childermass continues, first with one hand and then with the other, until Norrell's eyes are closed and relaxed around the corners. He looks very soft that way, like he had when he had laughed.

Once they sit on the sopha together, sides touching, both of them reading - it is, for Norrell, no doubt an intense amount of contact. Childermass can feel the tense muscles in his thighs against his own, the way he holds himself stiff. Childermass keeps wondering if he should move away, but there is room for Norrell to move away if he wishes to, and so presumably he does not.

So close to Norrell, Childermass is very aware of how small his master is. It makes him suddenly protective, disconcertingly so - he thinks to himself _no-one is allowed to hurt you_  before he can suppress it.

He is aware of the danger of such thoughts. But all the same, he reaches his hand around behind Norrell and wraps his arm around his waist.

Norrell goes very stiff, holding himself with perfect stillness now. Childermass prepares to scoot away discreetly, but then Norrell's arm comes around too, so that they are halfway embracing on the little sopha with their faces turned away from each other and their sides pressed together.

There is something so very careful about it, something so very shy and new and fragile. Childermass feels as though he is being slowly remade. He supposes it is the culmination of a process that began when he walked into this house. His hands were used once for stealing and fighting and hauling ropes - he thinks of the tattoo on his forearm - and now they are for writing and touching and doing up buttons, of all things. He knows how to soothe Norrell out of a fit, and how to calm his fussing, and how to tie his neckcloth just so.

He wonders if he is getting soft. He wonders if he should care. He wonders if this can possibly end well, and if it does not, where he will go.

But mostly he plays his fingers in the fabric of Norrell's housecoat, and allows himself a moment to hope.

It grows and grows. Norrell seems to be adept at finding new ways to break Childermass's composure without meaning to or, indeed, knowing he has done so.

There is a day, for instance, where Childermass is tired and in pain and wants nothing more than to rest. He does not think Norrell has noticed. He is not very observant, and he is not looking at Childermass as if he knows. It seems to be pure coincidence that he chooses that day to do what he does.

But the fact remains that  when he passes by Childermass's chair he stops, frowns, and tilts his head.  Then he reaches out a hand and unties Childermass's hair.

He runs his hands through it, cautiously exploring. Childermass's eyes close and his breath rushes out. The fingers carding through his hair are inexpert and keep snagging on tangles but all the same it is immensely soothing. He can feel the tightness draining from his neck and jaw, and while it does not help the pain, it distracts him enough to calm his mind a little.

He wants very badly to kiss Norrell then, but it is too soon. Instead he turns and says, "Why did you do that?"

Norrell says, "Because I wanted to."

Childermass sighs. He says, a little uncertainly, "Can I - ?"

Norrell looks confused. "Can you what?"

Childermass does not want to say _embrace you_ , because that is far, far too open. Instead he holds his arms out slightly.

"Oh," says Norrell. "I - yes." He steps uncertainly around the chair, closer to Childermass.

So Childermass wraps his arms around Norrell and rests his head against Norrell's waistcoat. Norrell's hands reposition themselves, so that they are still stroking his hair. It makes him feel very young and very raw, and he thinks he ought not let it go on. He is giving too much away.

But it is a long moment before he pulls back.

Who was the last person Childermass embraced? Who was the last person whose scent he caught the faintest trace of lingering on his own skin?

He cannot clearly remember and he does not recall missing it or wishing for it, before this. And yet now that it is here, now that he has it, he feels that he has wanted it very much.

The point, the terrifying point, is that once it starts it is very hard to halt the progression.

Touching is becoming casual with them now. Norrell no longer flinches automatically when Childermass places a hand on his back on late nights when he is hunched over a book. And now he reaches out to tidy Childermass's hair, straighten the crooked lines of his jacket, without thinking. Now their feet meet under the table and rest together peacefully, instead of pulling away.

It is not so much that Childermass fears discovery; most of the time, such things only occur in the library or in Norrell's bedroom. Both are spaces where other servants fear to tread.

No, what he fears is - attachment. Getting used to this, so that when it all ends - and Childermass is certain it will, eventually - he will find himself terribly bereft. Childermass hates _needing_ , he does not want to need this. He does not want to want this even as much as he does.

But somehow he cannot quite bring himself to stop.

  
  


June-October 1794

 

By June, Norrell has decided that he has had enough time to accustom himself to the idea of a kiss.

However, he has absolutely no idea how to convey this message to Childermass. So he decides, with much trepidation, to take action.

Thus it is that one day when they are sitting together on their favorite sopha, Norrell takes a deep breath, and scrunches up his face, and pecks Childermass on the lips.

Childermass laughs - more freely than Norrell has ever seen him, although this is no great contest because he hardly ever laughs. Norrell pulls back, hurt, and turns away.

"No," says Childermass, sobering. "That was my mistake. It is not - " He turns Norrell's face around gently, and Norrell allows it. "I am not laughing at you," he says, his long smile twitching again at the corner of his lips. "I swear it."

"It was a very convincing impression of it, then," says Norrell, frowning.

Childermass rests their foreheads together. "I am sorry," he says. "You looked as though you were going to do something very unpleasant, and you were screwing up your courage for it."

"I was screwing up my courage," says Norrell, "And look at the reception you have given me."

"I have apologised," says Childermass. "But do you remember what I told you? The first time?"

"You told me a great many things. That you did not intend to give offense, for instance, I recall it very clearly. Which you just have."

"I told you that a kiss should be an act of mutual enjoyment," says Childermass patiently, clearly ignoring this last comment. "If you are not comfortable engaging in it, there is no point."

"But how am I to become comfortable?" says Norrell, making a face. "I do not know where to begin."

"I suppose you could find no books on the subject."

"Childermass," says Norrell in reproof.

Childermass's mouth crooks at the side. "Very well, then," he says. He pulls himself back from Norrell, which is not a promising beginning. But then he says, "For the first time it is best to move in slowly, so as to ascertain the other party's wishes. If they turn away, you will have time to recover yourself."

He moves his face very close to Norrell's again, so that their noses bump gently. He continues, "And if you follow my advice, do not rush it, not the first one. Take your time."

"It is not technically the first," murmurs Norrell, although he is finding it hard to hold on to the thought, so near to Childermass's mouth. Their lips are nearly touching as they speak.

"If it's all the same to you, I would rather not count the actual first attempt, considering how badly it went," says Childermass. "Shall we say that we are beginning over again?"

"If you like," says Norrell. "But if you go on talking I do not see how we shall ever start."

"I thought you said you wished to learn."

"For God's sake, Childermass," says Norrell, and tilts his head forward into the kiss.

Childermass is smiling again when their lips meet.

The sensation is initially one of dampness. But it is not, Norrell decides after a moment, unpleasant. Not when Childermass tilts his head so that their lips meet at an angle, and raises a hand to rest against Norrell's face.

"There," says Childermass when they have separated. "Was that more comfortable?"

"Yes," says Norrell thoughtfully. "I would say so. I do not believe I understand the fuss, however."

Childermass snorts. "For myself I have found that it develops with experience."

"Hmm," says Norrell. "I suppose that might be the case. I would certainly be willing to experiment more."

And so they do.

Which is not to say there are no mishaps.

For instance, Childermass's first go at educating Norrell on the use of tongue and teeth in kissing is fraught.

This is rather farther than Norrell was expecting things to progress. But Childermass has a power to make Norrell bold, because he demands nothing, only allows, and this kindles in Norrell desire to allow in return. Norrell still has no desire for any sort of - conjugal relations, and strongly doubts he ever will. The thought makes his stomach turn with disgust. But this particular matter seems to develop naturally from previous ones.

It is the most astonishing thing. If someone had explained the concept to Norrell he would have called it unhygienal and speculated that it would be most exceedingly uncomfortable. But  that does not seem to be the case. It is in fact rather pleasant.

For the most part. At some point Childermass conspires to capture his tongue and suck gently at it and -

"Ow," says Norrell, breaking off.

"What?" says Childermass, blinking slowly. He looks very mussed from Norrell's fingers in his hair.

"That was painful," Norrell complains.

Childermass's brow furrows. "It is not supposed to be," he says. "In what way?"

"It feels as though a muscle is being strained," says Norrell.

"I see," says Childermass. He does not look any less confused. But he continues, "In that case I will remember."

"It is not that way for every one?"

"Many people find it very pleasant, but - " Childermass shrugs - "Each person is different in these matters, of course."

Norrell nods and Childermass kisses him again. It does not take long to get back into the swing of things. Soon Norrell is trying the same trick on Childermass and finding that he does not seem to experience the same pain Norrell does. Indeed, he makes a noise - quiet but very satisfying - into Norrell's mouth.

Childermass retaliates by pulling at Norrell's bottom lip with his teeth. This is quite different than the other had been. It scrapes but does not hurt - no, it is much better, much better. He finds himself clutching at Childermass's back for balance.

Childermass pulls back, breathing rather quickly, and reverentially whispers "Gilbert - "

Things screech to an abrupt halt. Childermass's face is twisted into an expression of discomfort that Norrell can feel mirrored on his own.

"No," says Childermass. "That is not right."

"I should think not," says Norrell. "Something else, perhaps."

There is an awkward pause. Norrell tries frantically to banish memories of his grandfather from his mind. They arise any time he is called by his Christian name, and this is the very last moment that he wants to remember his grandfather. He shakes his hands discreetly.

"Will you settle for 'sir', for the moment?" says Childermass at last.

Norrell nods, and reaches hesitantly for Childermass's face. He brings his hand up, and his face close to Childermass's shyly, as if they have not just been kissing. It is still astonishing that he is allowed to do this. Astonishing that he allows it to be done to him.

"Sir," murmurs Childermass. Norrell leans forward and brings their lips together again.

After that, things progress quite satisfactorily indeed.

 

October 1794

 

Childermass does ask him about the question of his Christian name, eventually. Norrell is not surprised.

"One thing I do not understand," says Childermass, "Is why you have a name you do not like."

"I do not know what you mean."

"You chose it, did you not? Surely something you were comfortable with would have had some value."

Norrell shifts as Childermass laces his binder. "I asked my mother once what she would have named me. If - things had been otherwise. Tighter."

"You have to be able to breathe," says Childermass mildly. "So you used the name that she gave you?"

"Yes. If people look back at my family history, they will see that my grandfather was named Gilbert Norrell, and so am I. It will seem entirely natural to them."

"Hmm. Makes sense. But you flinch when someone uses it."

"I did not care for my grandfather," says Norrell, frowning. "A most unpleasant man."

"If he was anything like what you've told me of your father..." Childermass says, tightening the laces a little bit.

"He was."

"And I can see why you would not wish to be reminded of your grandfather in a...delicate situation."

"Yes. Quite. You can imagine how unsuitable the associations are. In any case, it is of no consequence," Norrell continues. "I am not on such personal terms with anyone as to need the use of my first name."

Childermass 'hmmm's again. Norrell can tell he is thinking of yesterday when he had kissed Norrell again, the two of them pressed together in a corner for a moment, with one of Childermass's hands on Norrell's cheek. At the time it had felt soul-searingly personal, to have that much contact with another person. To have it with Childermass. To have him surrounding him, touching on so many points, to have Childermass look into his eyes and breathe "May I?" before he moved. And yet it is familiar by now, too. Quite - astonishing, the way things have developed.

"It is not the same thing," he says uncomfortably. "I don't call you John."

"You don't," acknowledges Childermass.

"It is not safe."

"Just as you say, sir." Norrell can feel Childermass fasten the bindings, and pat him on the shoulder to let him know he is done. "There you are," he says.

"Childermass - "

"Yes?"

"It is very - " Norrell frowns and breaks off. "You have never asked me questions. About - before."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Before what?"

Norrell flaps a hand impatiently. "You have never asked me what name I had before Gilbert, or - "

"Oh. That. I do not think it any of my business. It's my duty to serve you as you are now and my - " He breaks off, as if uncertain where the sentence is going to end. "Anyway, I have no interest in who people used to think you were."

"Yes. Well. I appreciate that." Norrell clears his throat, and looks back down. "I appreciate your...understanding."

Childermass nods. He shuffles around to Norrell's front and kisses him gently, one hand on Norrell's chin tilting his face just slightly. The lightest press. Norrell sighs into it and kisses back. For a moment there is nothing but that.

"This you, this is the real you," says Childermass, rubbing their noses together. "I do not care to learn about a mask you had to wear for twelve years. If you want to tell me about it, I will listen. But it is none of my concern otherwise."

Norrell leans his forehead against Childermass's for a moment, with just the barest hesitation. Then they separate.

"Do you want me to shave you?" Childermass asks.

"Yes. It has been three days. That is long enough."

It is not that Norrell will grow a beard. It is more that he is afraid someone will notice the soft downy hairs on his jaw and lip and realize that he cannot grow one. So he shaves them. Or, rather, he has Childermass shave them.

The soft touch of the brush feels like torture some days, like a thousand tiny ants tickling his chin, but today it is acceptable. He breathes in and out through his nose as Childermass foams his skin and picks up the razor.

He feels safe here. Childermass makes him feel safe. He has for a long time, and Norrell does not know how it developed.

It is so very peculiar, this comfort with another person's touch. He could not have imagined it. He does not know if it could develop with anyone else. He is uncomfortable in almost every one's society, but Childermass hardly seems to register. His hands feel no more intrusive than Norrell's own.

And kissing - it is a curious effect. He had not imagined it to be so...soothing. For a long while even the thought made a knot in his chest. He remembers how it felt, the first time. The cold choking tide of panic rising over him. But he trusts Childermass not to require more of him than he can give.

He suspects it is most unrespectable. Perhaps it is even wrong. Sometimes he feels guilty about it.

Right now, though, he cherishes the feeling of being safe in someone else's hands.

"There now," says Childermass, as he finishes. "You're ready."

Norrell stands up. His expression must reveal something, for Childermass raises his eyebrows, as if to ask, _what?_

There are many things which Norrell would like to say. Thank you for being patient with me, that is one. I am not always myself and I am grateful for your assistance when I cannot be, that is another. I wish I could make you understand what your service has meant to me. I have never known anyone who understands me the way you do, and I do not know if I ever will.

He cannot say any of them.

"It is nothing," he says instead. "You may go."

 


	7. 1795

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAH. The last chapter. And now I want to write another two sequels, it's terrible, I may or may not be outlining. Um. What was I going to say. Firstly! I keep forgetting to mention that this is technically pre-Magic Circle. So it's in the same verse as all that. I feel like I almost need a pre-magic circle verse series now honestly, if I'm going to write more. 
> 
> Um. What else. Thank you all so much for reading this story and leaving such beautiful responses. This was a...very personal thing, for me, and I wrote it thinking 'like two people aside from Moll are going to enjoy this' but I have a podfic! and a fanmix! and comments! and yeah. This has been incredibly validating and I can't thank y'all enough. I think that's all I have.
> 
> Speaking of which, look what errandofmercy made! 8tracks.com/errandofmercy/the-days-of-our-years-a-trans-autistic-norrell-demi-cp-childermass-fanmix

 

January 1795

"You cannot dismiss  Mrs Fairview for this," says Childermass. He is looming over Norrell, which Norrell finds very intimidating and which therefore makes him more defensive.

"Why?" says Norrell. "Because she is your particular favorite?"

Childermass's mouth turns down in a crooked line. "No," he says. "Because it is absurd."

"She lied to me, Childermass. Her references are false, all of them are false."

"Everyone does it." Childermass folds his arms. "When you are desperate and need work and know you can be better - you have no idea, sir, how very desperate you can get when you have been in prison."

"How would you know?" asks Norrell. Childermass raises his eyebrows.

"You can trust that I do," he says.

Has Childermass been in prison? Norrell had not thought to check - "Everyone does it," he repeats. "Everyone?"

Childermass's face is wearing that particular enigmatic expression that Norrell still has not learned to read in the slightest. In this case, while he does not know what Childermass is feeling, he is quite certain of what he means.

"You have done it," he says. "You have lied to me - "

"It was that or starve," says Childermass. "I tell you again, you cannot understand how very desperate it is possible to get."

"It is dishonest!" Norrell stands up, forcing Childermass backwards. "It is a betrayal!"

"Haven't I proven myself since then?" demands Childermass. "Haven't I gone far beyond what the letters said, in any case?"

"That is not the point."

"Why not? What is?"

"The point is that you and she are both liars," says Norrell. It is the wrong thing to say, he knows it is as soon as it leaves his mouth, and he can see it hit home. Childermass visibly flinches, as if Norrell has struck him.

"If that is what you think of me," he begins.

"Childermass - " says Norrell. "That is not what I - "

"I'm going to York," says Childermass. "On your business. I do not know when I shall be back. I shall see to  Mrs Fairview on my return."

"Take your time," says Norrell coldly, upset at being interrupted. "I should hate for you to rush and make a hash of it."

Childermass's shoulder stiffen. He storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Norrell starts at the sound.

He spends the rest of the day fuming. How dare Childermass interrupt him when he was trying to explain himself! How dare he have _lied_  to him! How dare he have entered his house on false pretenses! He begins three separate letters to tell Childermass not to come back at all, that he is sacked and his devious accomplice with him, but he tears them all up in frustration.

The second day he begins to regret. It is true that Childermass has more than proven himself, and Norrell realizes that he does not know any more what he would do without him. It seems intolerable that he should have gone so long without Childermass, in fact. How had he managed, without Childermass to help deal with all the petty concerns he hates so much? He begins two separate letters to tell Childermass that he should come back, but tears them all up because he cannot make it sound right.

On the third day he realizes that he is terrified of Childermass leaving, not only because he is vital to his business, but because he would be alone without him. This is a realization that comes any time they fight, because he always forgets, somehow. He always forgets how it feels when people might leave. It is a horrible lurch every time. He does not even try to write a letter to express it. It would be no good.

He does, however, manage a few stiffly formal lines to inquire how the business matters are going. He posts it the same day, and waits anxiously for a reply.

On the fifth day he receives a letter from Childermass. He refuses to admit to himself that he is nervous to open it, but it does not look like a resignation. It is lumpy and full of mysterious shapes.

Norrell opens the bulging envelope and sighs in relief. It is full of scattered sheets of paper.

He draws out the letters carefully. There is, in fact, a reply to his questions, which he reads first. It is perfectly professional in tone, written in Childermass's much-improved formal penmanship. It concerns the nature of the books he has found, what shape they are in, and what price Childermass had to pay. It then goes on to detail some other business Childermass has conducted while in York.

The others are scraps of paper or half-torn sheets full of sketches, little rants, critiques of an innkeeper Childermass has met along the way when he stopt for food, and observations on the nature of the countryside he has passed through while traveling. Norrell feels his tension ebbing away. Childermass would not send him these if he were still upset. He would not even send them if he wished to keep his business secret, which he sometimes does even when they are on good terms.

Last summer they had another fight and Childermass had stormed off to London, of all places, to see to some financial matters. Norrell had received only painstakingly thorough business letters for a fortnight. It had nearly driven him mad.

Norrell separates the letters into chronological order and reads them all with the exact same care as he had read the business letter. They feel like a kind of defiant baring of the throat and he is lost on how to respond to them, as he generally is.

Norrell thinks for a while on how to begin.

He picks up a pen and writes, _Childermass, You must cure yourself of this habit of starting off a new letter without even a proper salutation. It is most undignified. One cannot take seriously a letter that begins "And another thing." However, I note with astonishment that your innkeeper bears a strong resemblance to a disreputable personage who once accosted me in a country lane, and I would welcome your input on whether they might perhaps be the same man..._

Childermass blows back in with the January winds a full week and a half after he left. Norrell meets him at the door.

"I take it your business was successful," he says.

"Quite," says Childermass. There is a long silence between them, not quite comfortable.

Then Childermass says, "I suppose to ask you for a warmer greeting would be a waste."

Norrell frowns and looks around. They are alone, so he stands up on his toes. Childermass's face is cold and his hair is wet, so he sneaks his hands inside Childermass's greatcoat, to wrap his arms around Childermass's waist and steady himself. Then he kisses him stiffly on the lips.

Childermass sighs - a strangely contented sound - and leans his forehead against Norrell's. Norrell pulls back, making a face. "Your skin is freezing," he says.

"It is winter and I have just come in from the outdoors," says Childermass, letting him go.

"There is tea in the library. I believe it is still warm."

"I wouldn't say no," says Childermass "And I shall update you on your business concerns."

"Yes," says Norrell. "That will do very well."

"If I went into my study, would I find a bag of cinder toffee that you would entirely disclaim knowledge of?" asks Childermass.

"I have never put cinder toffee in your study. So I would not know."

"I suppose you cannot explain why I find it there so often when we have a disagreement."

"Perhaps one of the maids wishes to cheer you up," says Norrell. "Perhaps you should stop looking so stormy afterwards. It is most alarming."

"I cannot help it, sir. I have been told that is the natural state of my face."

Childermass's hand is cold too, but Norrell is quite certain it will warm up, once he has held it long enough.

  
March 1795

"Is there anything more you require of me?" says Childermass. He has just finished getting Norrell ready for bed, and is anticipating sleep himself. So he is not really paying as much attention, and does not notice until the silence has gone on far too long.

Norrell is gazing down at the covers, clutching them between his fingers. He says, "Childermass - " but does not continue.

Childermass glances over Norrell. It is clear he wants something, but what it is Childermass cannot say.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to speak more plainly," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He deliberately avoids looking Norrell in the eye, and instead focuses on his hands. He is twisting the bed covers between his fingers, which tells Childermass nothing he already does not know.

"I cannot help you if you do not tell me," says Childermass, being sure to keep his voice neutral. Impatience will only make Norrell fly into a rage and then nothing will be accomplished.

Norrell says, "Do you remember the coaching inn?"

Childermass's breath stops for a moment. Yes. Of course he does. He remembers his moment of instinctive unwitnessed vulnerability, remembers reaching his hand out to Norrell and pulling it back. Until this very moment, it has not occurred to him that Norrell might have his own experience related to their shared bed. He wonders what it might be.

"Would you like me to stay?" says Childermass.

Norrell stops twisting the blankets between his fingers and instead begins to rub them with a pinching motion. "It is very cold tonight," he remarks to the blankets. "For March."

"So it is," says Childermass. He hesitates, and then makes a decision. "I will return shortly, sir," he says, standing up.

He goes to his own room to wash and make such preparations for the day as he considered necessary. After a moment's thought, he puts on his nightshirt over his breeches and stockings, and gathers a few clothes for the next day.

Then he returns.

Norrell has got into bed but is still sitting up, reading a book. When Childermass enters his eyes turn towards him, and then skitter away.

Childermass sets his things down, sits on the empty half of the bed, and then begins removing his shoes. He can feel Norrell’s gaze on the back of his neck. The shoes go neatly beside the bed. His fingers worked at the buttons on the side of his breeches, and then pull off his stockings.

When he is undressed down to his nightshirt, he turns back to Norrell. Their eyes met; Norrell looks down, and then back up.

“You slept in your clothes in the coaching inn,” says Norrell.

“I did,” allows Childermass. “So did you. I am sure you remember the fleas.”

“I have never seen you without stockings,” Norrell says abruptly. “You have scars on your legs.”

Childermass shrugs. In truth they are mostly from falls when his joints abruptly gave out - although one is from an unexpected attacker with a knife - but as this lacks mystery, he prefers not to reveal it. He slides under the covers next to Norrell, who tenses for a moment as he always does when you come close, and then unwinds fractionally. After a moment, Norrell sets his book down, blows out his candle, and lies down, his back to Childermass.

After a moment, he scoots slightly closer.

Childermass does not need to be hinted at twice. He moves himself up next to Norrell and puts an arm around him, tucking his head under his chin. As Norrell does not make any indignant noises or kick him out of the bed, he assumes this was most likely the correct action. However, when his feet touch Norrell's, there is a protesting squawk from the other half of the bed.

"Your feet are freezing," says Norrell reproachfully.

"They generally are," Childermass says.

"It is untenable. You might as well wear boots into bed."

"You’re nesh, you are," says Childermass, clicking his tongue.

"I am no such thing," says Norrell indignantly. "You ought to keep your stockings on."

"That sounds most uncomfortable without breeches."

"Your feet are most uncomfortable."

"Would you like me to get out of the bed?"

"I did not say that. I said nothing of the sort," says Norrell.

"Very well then." Childermass moves his feet back slightly so that they are no longer touching Norrell, and snuggles the other arm a bit closer. The height difference between them, the shortness of Norrell’s hair, and the presence of the nightcap is fortunately enough to ensure that there is no hair in his mouth, although he can still feel some tickling his neck.

After a moment, Norrell sighs and relaxes fully. “At least the rest of you moderately warm,” he says. Childermass hums his agreement.

Between the two of them, the body heat is warming the blankets up very nicely now. Norrell’s hand has drifted up to his and he is slowly rubbing his fingers against the knuckles; Childermass thinks he might not be entirely aware he is doing it.

“We shall have to be careful,” says Childermass.

“Mmm?”

“So that none of the servants find out.”

“Oh. That.” Norrell sighs again. “Yes, it would not be good to have any breath of scandal, even here. I suppose you must leave early and come back at your usual time.”

“That would be wisest. But I rise early in any case.”

These arrangements made, both talk no longer, but close their eyes and try to sleep. Norrell’s hand gradually slows on Childermass’s, eventually stopping to rest there. His breathing becomes even.

Childermass lays awake a while longer, listening to the sounds of slow breaths and the crackle of a dying fire. Then he too falls asleep.

He wakens very late at night, or very early in the morning. He thinks it might be one o'clock.

Norrell is stirring beside him, but Childermass does not speak. For a long while, they lay there in silence, until Childermass begins to drift off.

"Childermass?" says Norrell.

Childermass, nearly asleep again and not paying attention to his own words, says, "Yes, love?"

It takes Childermass approximately half a second to awaken fully and realize what he has said. Subsequently there is nearly ten seconds of dead silence between them; Childermass thinks Norrell might be holding his breath. This gives Childermass ample time to curse with increasing franticness in his head. He had been half into a dream, but that is no excuse. He'd been a fool, a complete fool, to let his guard slip like this. Perhaps he is getting soft from living in a fine house too long. From sharing intimacies with Norrell. In the future, he resolves, he will do better. That is, if he is permitted to continue.

But when Norrell speaks, all he says - in a very careful voice - is, "Well - John - I suppose by your reply that you must be awake."

Childermass clears his throat. "Yes," he says. "I am now."

In the darkness, Norrell makes a sound that might almost be a laugh. Childermass remembers suddenly the first time he heard that sound, and allows himself to let go just a little.

"What was it you wanted?" he asks, softly.

"I was thinking of Belasis."

"I am somehow unsurprised."

Norrell tuts. "I was thinking of concealment spells," he begins, and launches into a lecture on what, exactly, the Instructions say about them. Childermass does not mind. It is oddly - safe, this feeling, listening to Norrell talk of spells in the dark. Most of Childermass is following the words, paying very close attention, but another part of him is simply listening to the sound of Norrell's high, dry little voice and storing it away for times when he knows he will not have it.

They while away the rest of the night talking about magic, until both of them fall asleep again.

Childermass very nearly misses his time to awaken, but he considers it well worth it.

 

September 1795

Norrell has a most unusual yen for a walk in the orchard, and he has brought Childermass along. Childermass thinks it is for magic, although he is not certain. But this is the smallest and least harmful of whims, so he takes his cane in case it proves taxing and accompanies Norrell.

But when they arrive, Norrell does not begin preparing for a spell. He only walks about for a while. Childermass leans against a tree and watches him.

At last he says, "Will you be requiring anything of me?"

Norrell says, "No. I am only remembering."

Childermass is not sure if this is a hint - it is rare that Norrell wants to be asked about anything, but it does happen. He tries, "Remembering what?"

"It was September when I discovered magic," says Norrell. "Here on this very estate. I am remembering how it felt."

"How old were you?" asks Childermass.

"Twelve. My parents had just - " Norrell stops. "I had just come to my uncle's house," he says.

Childermass can feel the unspoken word hovering in the air.

"You did not know them very well?" he says carefully.

"With my father it was not so..." Norrell shrugs. "It was a long time ago."

"Twenty-three years," says Childermass. He had found out Norrell's age, in the end, when he had helped him change his records.

"Yes," says Norrell. He pokes delicately at some leaves with his toe. "A very long time."

"I was twelve," says Childermass. The words are out before he can stop them, and he feels as though a piece has been torn out with them. "When my mother died."

There is silence between them as they acknowledge this commonality.

Norrell says, "What did she - ?"

Childermass's mother was hanged for theft. He watched it happen because he had not wanted her to die alone, and he still remembers the way she had jerked sometimes, on dark nights. He still remembers the dull ache that followed and the way things had spun out of control after that.

He does not want to tell Norrell this, him with his fine house and fine clothes; he would not understand. He would hear 'thief' and form a picture of her, a wrong one. For all they have shared, some things Childermass wants to keep tight to him. At least for now.

Instead he says, "It was consumption."

"Do you remember much of her?"

Childermass blinks. The words bring a tide of memories rushing in, of his mother tending a cut he had got scuffling with some other boys, of her giving him the last scrap of food when things got too hard, teaching him to cook, teaching him to dress a wound, telling him stories and singing. Her voice had been harsh and sharp with the years but to him it had meant comfort. She had never learned to read but she could spin tales out of thin air. He remembers how she gathered the little gang of thieves to her, protecting them as she protected him. He has to take a moment to breathe before he can continue.

"Some," he says. "And you yours?"

"She had very nice manners," says Norrell. "And she was very beautiful. That is all I remember, mostly."

"Mine was not. She looked like me."

Norrell glances at him, poking another leaf with his foot. "If you are seeking a compliment, do not expect me to rise to it," he says.

Childermass smirks. "No, sir," he says. "I would not ask you to be so dishonest. We're a good match. Neither of us are much to look at."

Norrell makes an annoyed tutting sound. "Fortunately my ambition is not dependant upon the appearance of my face," he says.

"And what is that ambition?"

Instead of replying, Norrell pauses at a tree, and Childermass wanders over to look.

They stand now by the sole and single apple-bearing pear tree in the orchard, perhaps the only one in England. Childermass has never actually seen it before. He always meant to come down to look at it, but he has never quite made it before.

The sense-memory of the first magic he ever saw drifts over him as he looks at it. A soft warm fire and gentle rain. The tension at the center of the storm. Parchment. Seven years, he thinks to himself. Seven years since he came here, looking for learning and respect and a good winter coat.

His chest feels warm and heavy, brimming with the weight of how much more he has found.

"I am told the apples still taste of pear," says Norrell, looking at the tree. "Apparently the spell was not so successful as I thought it might be."

Childermass shrugs. "It is an old orchard," he says. "I suppose trees have very good memories."

"It was his orchard," says Norrell.

"Whose?"

"The Raven King's."

"I did not know he was one for planting."

"That I cannot say. But he ate a pear once and threw the pips away, and all these trees are from him." Norrell blinks rapidly. "I used to spend hours here in my youth."

"Thinking of him," says Childermass, because Norrell reacts to mentions of the Raven King like a spurned lover would. Like someone whose heart has been broken.

"Yes," says Norrell distantly. "Wishing to see him, in fact."

"And now you no longer wish to."

Norrell gazes at his own hands, tightening into fists. "He left us," he says.

"He took magic from the world," says Childermass. Because it is true. Because John Uskglass is his king and all his fealty belongs to him, but he will not excuse him for that.

"Yes," says Norrell. "He was the greatest magician of the age and he abandoned - " He stops. "England," he finishes, rather half-heartedly. He sighs. "It is very difficult to be alone."

Childermass thinks, _if that is the case, why don't you teach some more? Why do you send me to disband societies?_  It is a mark of his regard for Norrell that he does not say it. But there is a bitter little seed in his heart that whispers _Why don't you teach me?_

He knows Norrell will not, and he knows that he will learn anyway. He knows, too, that this will not chase him away. Childermass will stay with Norrell for all his hypocrisy and his fussiness and his fretting, because they are bound together now. Regardless of his personal feelings - which he does not contemplate, because they are a weakness he would prefer not to have - he knows and his cards know that their paths will wind together for a long time yet.

So he only nods his head.

Norrell looks up at the tree. "Maybe it was arrogant of me to try to change something he wrought," he says.

Childermass stands tall to pick an apple. It is perfectly red and ripe. He examines it.

"It seems to me that you did not do so bad a job as you think," he says. "It still is an apple, look. Perhaps you can rewrite what he has written. Perhaps any of us could."

"I want to bring it back," Norrell says, suddenly and intensely. "Magic. It can come back. I know it can."

"Is that not what you have done?" says Childermass. "You do magic. You are the only one who can do magic. And it is not as though you would have it any other way."

"But no one knows," says Norrell. "Everyone thinks it is dead. I want them to know it lives." He stands up straighter. "I want to be the one who shows them."

"I see," says Childermass softly. "And that is your ambition? How do you plan to do that?"

"I do not know." Norrell looks down.

Childermass reaches out and takes his hand. "Which is why you need me," he says.

Norrell looks up. "You would - you would aid me?"

"If you do this, I will stay with you until it is accomplished," he says. It is not phrased as a promise but he can feel the weight of the word on his tongue as he says them, and Norrell seems to feel it too. His hand tightens on Childermass's and Childermass squeezes back.

He smiles to himself, resigned and grim and amused as always by the helplessness of humanity - even himself. Because he can see the future curling out in front of them, the path they will walk.

Norrell is not his. He will never be his. Childermass knows that, in his heart. Norrell has been someone else's for a long time and so, really, has he; the shadow of the Raven King will always hover over them, between them. So will Norrell's money, and Childermass's background, and the inherent need for secrecy. There will always be the world outside.

But it will not part them for a long time, he thinks, and for now, they have a job to do. For now, their days and weeks and years will unspool intertwined.

Here under an enchanted tree in the orchard that John Uskglass planted, they have decided to bring back what he took away.

Magic is returning to the world.

 


End file.
